


My Beloved Queen

by Turquoise54



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Fantasy, King - Freeform, Medieval
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2020-12-28 10:31:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 79,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21135275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turquoise54/pseuds/Turquoise54
Summary: || reader-insert ||[ yandere! king x princess! f! reader ]Your duty is to your people, not your heart, and if marrying an obsessive and cruel king is the only way to protect the kingdom, then you must be his betrothed.You must do as he says. You must keep your mouth shut. You must do whatever you can to keep your people safe, even if it means sacrificing what little freedom you have.[ also on Quotev ]





	1. PROLOGUE

** o. the fates **

**monster**  
// black were his eyes. black as tar—black as the charred remains of a body burned in the fire. but blacker still was his heart, burned by humiliation and fear, blistering and peeling under bars of cold white bone.

* * *

**_The witch’s milky blue eyes narrowed_**, and her pale, papery thin lips curled into the shape of a disgusted frown. “What do you want?” she hissed. Her voice was sharp—unfriendly—like the blade of a sword, or the fangs of a viper.

The king stood in the doorway to her home in the woods. His body was outlined in gold, but war clung to his fair skin, and death stained his cold iron armor. The stench of it climbed up the witch’s nostrils, and her glare turned scalding.

“Is it different?” The king’s voice was not like the witch’s. There was no resentment in his tone—in his face. His dark eyes were empty, void of any anger or offense—cold, like the iron sheathed at his hip.

Fire curled up the witch’s chest, making her throat warm and drawing her pale lips back from her yellow teeth. “Is it different?” she snarled in mock imitation. She whirled to face the king, fury burning in her blind eyes. “Is that what you want? Is that why you kill and maim and torture? For change?” She lifted a curved, bony finger and pointed it at the king accusingly. “You are as foolish as you are cruel. Destiny does not bow to any man, regardless of the sword he wields or the skulls hanging from his belt.”

The king’s empty eyes flared with anger for a brief, frightening moment, and he stepped toward the witch, his gloved hands flying to the hilt of his blade. Then the anger was gone, and the king’s face was flat once more. He was young, the king. But he did not look so. There was a hardness to his face, a jadedness that did not belong in the eyes of the young.

“Everything has a breaking point, witch.” The king’s empty, dark eyes stared unblinkingly back at the witch, and the hand that had flown to the grip of his blade fell back to his side. He moved closer to her, but the witch did not back away. “Now tell me—is it different?”

The witch glared at the king, but reluctantly turned her gaze back upon the silver mirror. At first, all that lay before her blue eyes was her reflection—pale and leathery and painted with the same bitterness that swam in the king’s eyes—but then she saw it. A picture—a painting in the mirror. A vision.

Future? Present? Past?

It was blurry, and the witch squinted at it. Something moved in the picture—the false reflection—but she could not tell what it was.

“It’s gone fuzzy again.” The words were forced past her clenched teeth, and she raised her gaze to shoot the king a scathing glare. “Too many possibilities. Too many futures.” She swallowed, and the fire in her stomach flickered. “How many did you kill?”

The king’s dark eyes narrowed. “There was a battle.” His gloved hand came back to the hilt of his sword, and he grasped at it almost absentmindedly. “The enemy refused to cooperate.”

The witch clenched her jaw and tightened her grip on the silver mirror. “I wonder why.” She looked back at the false reflection and the image shimmered and then grew sharper, cleaner. The blurry edges and muted colors brightened and became clearer, and the witch brought her face closer to the mirror’s surface.

A hand. An eye? No, no it was a ring. A face. A nose. An arm, holding something. Someone?

A woman, and she was…

She was…

The king? The king, yes, he was—and she—

She…

“No.” The witch drew back from the mirror. Her eyes were wide, and fear and shock rippled across her face. The fire in her stomach had been snuffed, and now her chest was cold, and her throat was tight. “No, no—that isn’t right. You can’t have that. You shouldn’t—they wouldn’t—”

But she was there. And so was the king. And the child was in her arms, and he was at the throne. But it was still intact, it was still golden. The stained glass mirrors weren’t broken. The king’s head—his young, bitter head—was still resting on his shoulders, and there was no blood on the floor.

There was no death in his eyes.

“That’s not right!” The witch’s grasp on the mirror loosened, and it slipped from her fingers and would have shattered on the floor if the king had not moved forward to grab it. The witch’s voice was shrill, piercing. “That’s not _fair_!”

The king rose back to his full height, the silver mirror now in his arms. “What are you talking about?” His voice rose to match the witch’s, but confusion muffled his tone, and his dark eyes were narrowed with suspicion. “What’s wrong? Witch? Witch, are you listening to me? What’s wrong?”

“It’s not fair!” the witch wailed. Disbelief swam in her gaze, and her milky blue eyes began to gloss over with something akin to tears. “The gods would never let you have it! They wouldn’t! They cursed you! They cursed you and they wouldn’t—they would _never_—”

“What are you _talking_ about?!” the king yelled. The anger was back in his eyes—hot and fiery and burning. It was in his voice, too. Warming his teeth and coating his tongue with a sharp, passionate taste.

The witch’s wide, frightened eyes focused back on the king, and then she screamed. “Get out! Get _out_!”

Something heavy slammed into the king’s chest, and he stumbled backward, away from the witch. He tried to regain his balance—to right himself—but the world pulled and swam around him and he went toppling to the ground.

And his most recent future went with him.


	2. CHAPTER ONE

** i. the princess **

**daughter**  
// light are her footsteps, and feathery is her voice. her feet make hardly an imprint in the sand, and her words leave less than a dent in one’s mind.

* * *

**_There was no dust in the king’s study_. **The servants kept it nice and clean—free of dirt and disarray. All the books were alphabetized and stacked away neatly on the oaken shelves, and the set of swords your father kept mounted above the mantel had been polished.

You could see your reflection in the metal blades—warped and distorted, poking out from behind your father and the stranger standing at his side. An eloquent stranger, whose narrowed, calculating eyes had latched themselves upon your face the moment you had stepped inside your father’s study. They sized you up, those eyes. They cut you down—tried to divest you of your barriers, your mask, so they could see you for what you really were.

They were unkind, those eyes. Horribly, horribly unkind.

“You called for me, father?” You tried not to look at the unkind stranger, or at his clothes. The style was foreign but familiar; you knew the kingdom it hailed from. You heard stories of it—of the king who ruled it. Terrible, terrible stories.

The king’s gaze lifted from the papers laid out atop his desk and met yours with hesitance. “Yes, I did—I did.” Your father moved, flattening his silk clothes with a careful, nervous hand. Something swam in his weary, somber eyes—something like guilt. Or was it relief? “[Name], this is Ambassador Nivai, from the Ceorid Kingdom. He’s come with a…peace proposal, from King Orelus.” Your father gestured to the stranger with unkind eyes and then, with a little smile, swallowed. “He expressed a desire to meet you before making the agreement.”

“Indeed I did,” the man with unkind eyes spoke up. His voice was just like you might’ve imagined—cool and clipped, with an acridness that reminded you of snake venom. Violent and stinging and clean. This was a man who used silk to wipe the blood off of his blades. “A pleasure to meet you, Princess [Name].”

The man bowed to you, and you watched as his dark brown hair fell forward, shadowing his movements. Your father’s eyes widened at Ambassador Nivai’s actions, and, quickly, he gestured at you. You hurried to decipher, and then follow, his commands, and without putting much thought into what you were doing (besides hoping to please your father), you moved closer to the ambassador.

Nivai grabbed your hand when it was within reach, and then he lifted it up to his lips before standing back at his full height. He was a tall man. A tall man with vibrant, unkind eyes. He stood above your father and yourself, and the added height did nothing to help the feeling that he was peering down at you, scrutinizing you like an insect.

Like a stain on his silken clothes.

“Hmn—so your face does live up to your father’s boasts,” Nivai commented offhandedly. “How nice. It’s rather hard to find that kind of honesty nowadays.”

A flush rose to your father’s face at Ambassador Nivai’s words, but Nivai himself looked unperturbed, undisturbed by his blunt comment.

“Yes, I, uh, guess it is,” your father replied. He patted his chest nervously again, anxiously fingering the buttons on his shirt.

“Especially when you’re trying to secure marriage contracts,” Ambassador Nivai added, continuing like your father hadn’t spoken. His voice cut through the air like a sharp, well-thrown knife, and the more you heard it, the harder it became to keep your expression neutral. “No one shuts up about how beautiful their daughters are then.”

Your father forced out a nervous, but well-meaning chuckle. “I suppose they wouldn’t.”

“It becomes quite tiring after a while.” Ambassador Nivai rolled his unkind eyes, and you tried to keep the glare out of your gaze. Nivai’s words were pointed, pointed and rough and as unfriendly as his eyes. “Ambassador Inouus told me he got so sick of being read the whole act that he would end the negotiations right then and there.”

Your father swallowed. “How…unfortunate.”

“Perhaps.” Ambassador Nivai shrugged. “Though I can’t exactly blame him. It’s really quite arrogant, to boast about one’s looks. Arrogant and bothersome. I’ve thought of copying him, actually, but then, if I did, I’d return to King Orelus empty-handed.”

You swallowed the retort clawing its way up your throat and then took in a short, shallow breath of air. Just enough to help you choke down your emotions—your thoughts and opinions and feelings. Everything that did not belong in a room with a foreign ambassador. Everything that could be translated as an act of war by a potential enemy.

“Princess [Name]—you’ve been rather quiet,” Ambassador Nivai said, suddenly turning the conversation to you. He’d dropped your hand and your gaze, but now he fixed his calculating, unkind eyes back upon your face. “What are your thoughts? You’re young, unmarried—not betrothed to any future kings or lords. Why do _you_ suppose fathers try so hard to talk up their daughters’ beauty?”

You could feel your father staring at you, begging you with his eyes not to say anything embarrassing or injurious. But you didn’t glance his way—you didn’t let your gaze fall from Ambassador Nivai.

He didn’t come across as the kind of man you turned your back to.

“I’m no father, Ambassador Nivai,” you replied carefully. Your tone was decidedly neutral—decidedly ambivalent. “I won’t pretend I understand why they do what they do.” You paused, and Ambassador Nivai’s unkind eyes narrowed. “But as for why _women_ babble on about their beauty, I suppose it’s because it’s the only thing of value they own—the only benefit they can offer to trade.” Some of the bitterness you had tried to swallow seeped into your words, but by the time they were on your lips, it was already too late to try to take them back. “They aren’t allowed any further value.”

Ambassador Nivai’s eyes glimmered, and his lips twitched for a moment, though you couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a frown that he was trying to suppress. All that came from his mouth in reply, however, was an indifferent hum, and then he nodded to your father, who, in turn, thanked you for coming and then shooed you out of the room.

As you left, you felt Ambassador Nivai’s calculating, unkind stare on the back of your head, following you out of the room, burning your skull. But you kept your shoulders back, and your head forward. You left your father’s study the same way you’d come in: poised and indifferent, bearing the same comfortable, ambivalent mask.

Your tutors would’ve been proud.

“How’d it go?” the man waiting outside of your father’s study for you asked fervently the moment the doors closed after you. A sword was sheathed at the man’s hip, but he wore no armor over his clothes. He rarely did around the castle—only when you ventured outside of its safe walls.

The swordsman's eyes were kind when they were turned upon you, very unlike Ambassador Nivai’s cold glare. And when he spoke, his voice was low and warm and comforting.

You offered the man a small smile and stepped further away from the door and the guards your father had placed there, bringing yourself out of ear-shot for any person standing behind the door. “It was fine, Sir Isil,” you replied with false warmth. Then you cleared your throat, and shot the door to the king’s study—and the guards standing there—a quick glance. “Now, I wish to go to the garden. Will you take me?”

Isil, well versed in your language of gestures and false emotion, didn’t push for an answer like your siblings might have. He simply nodded and then offered you his arm, and with a warm, understanding smile said, “Of course, my princess. I heard from Princess Dadya that the marigolds are in bloom.”

The two of you strolled leisurely through the castle to the gardens, exchanging quick, polite hellos with any servants or guards you met along the way. No one was suspicious of either of you—they had no reason to be. You were just a princess and her personal guard—what was there to be distrustful of?

When you reached the gardens you guided Isil to your favorite place—a little bench under the willow trees, in a corner farthest from the doors leading into the garden and the guards standing there. Once there, you took a seat on the bench, and Isil sat beside you. In the sunlight, you could see highlights of gold in the man’s reddish-brown hair.

A small songbird alighted on one of the branches in the willow and chirped a short, sweet little tune, and you smiled slightly at the sight of it.

“Well, what happened?” Isil asked quietly. His voice was as warm as the air, and layered more with worry than curiosity. He reached out one of his hands—gloved, he always wore gloves—to grab yours, and then he held them tightly, firmly, like they were your lifeline—or maybe his.

You stared at the man. He was your friend, your confidante—the only person you could trust to divulge your deepest, darkest secrets to. He knew everything there was to know about you.

Even the things you wanted to forget.

“There was an ambassador, from the Ceorid Kingdom,” you began slowly, tentatively. “A very…impolite man. He was sent on behalf of his king to talk peace with my father.”

“His king?” Isil echoed. His sharp gray eyes widened, and his grip on your hands tightened almost painfully. “You mean Orelus? Why would the king want to broker peace with that—that _tyrant_?” Isil leaned closer to you, and something harsh, like anger, flashed in his eyes. “That can’t be true. You must be mistaken.”

You winced, and Isil immediately loosened his hold. “I don’t think so,” you said, shaking your head. “Nivai—the ambassador—he mentioned something about marriage contracts.” The songbird let out a melodious chitter, and you broke eye contact with Isil to spare the bird a quick glance. “That must mean something—peace, or at least a treaty. An agreement.”

Isil’s lips were turned down into a tight frown, and you could see in his face that he didn’t believe you—_couldn’t_ believe you. “I don’t know. After what that man did to Adalleth—” you winced at the mention of the man’s name, and Isil gave your hands a quick, comforting squeeze, “—I just don’t think it’s possible. He’s a monster, [Name].”

“I know.” You slipped your hands out of Isil’s hold and placed them in your lap, where they sat, clasped firmly together. Your voice was quiet, strained. Even after all these years, the sound of his name still made your chest tight and your eyes sting. “I know.”

Isil watched you, and the anger in his eyes died away, replaced by sympathy, and guilt. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

You swallowed and then tried to suck in a breath of air, and your lungs shuddered under the weight of the hand wrapped around your chest. “It’s okay. You didn’t mean to.”

Isil said nothing in reply. His hands sat there awkwardly, still open to yours. Empty.

Painfully empty.

The songbird sitting in the branches of the willow tree let out another joyful chirp before taking off, and you watched it fly away, up and up and up into the pale blue sky.

You stood up abruptly, surprising Isil. The man hurried to get up as well, and his sheathed sword made ugly clacking sounds against the stone bench as he rushed to stand.

“I’m going to see Didi,” you announced firmly. You could still feel the hand around your chest, squeezing your ribcage hard enough to snap your spine in two, but you ignored it. The garden was many things, but it wasn’t the place to break. “She learned a new song the other day. Said she wanted to play it for me.”

Isil didn’t move any closer. He kept his distance. Adalleth’s name did that—it made space between the two of you. “Do you want me to walk you there?”

You didn’t. You didn’t want to see Princess Dadya—your Didi. You didn’t want to see anyone. You wanted to be alone. You wanted to think. But you wanted to forget, too.

“Of course.” You smiled at Isil, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

It never reached your eyes.


	3. CHAPTER TWO

** ii. the princess and the lover **

**sister**  
// brilliant are her dreams. they burn like stars in her wide, wild eyes. they know no boundaries or rules, and they scorch the paths others try to carve.

* * *

**_Didi’s back was to you when you came in_. **She was sitting at the bench, playing with the keys on the harpsichord—making music with no order or direction. Her attention belonged to her melody, and she didn’t look up when the door opened, or the seconds that followed, when it closed.

Isil didn’t follow you in—you didn’t want him to. Didi wouldn’t have wanted him to, either. Not that she wasn’t fond of Isil; she just didn’t know him as you did.

He didn’t let her know him as you did.

“You sound wonderful, Didi,” you piped up, a sweet smile tickling your lips.

Didi perked up when she heard your voice, and her hands stilled. She swung around in her seat to face you, and a smile broke across her face, so wide and blinding that it nearly split her head in two. “[Nickname]!” she chirped gleefully. Delight shone in her bright eyes, so potent and great that it spilled out from her face and filled the room. “Come here, come here! I’ve something to tell you.”

Didi motioned you over with a fervid wave of her hand, her pretty eyes glittering brilliantly. Her gaze fled to the space behind you, and surprise flashed across her face. “Where’s that knight of yours, [Nickname]?” Didi furrowed her eyebrows, and her grin dimmed for a short second. “I thought he followed you everywhere.”

“Sir Isil?” You sat down beside Didi and sent her a pleasant smile. She was dressed in silk and satin, and midday sunlight streamed in through the windows, basking her in its glorious, golden glow. “He’s waiting outside. I know he makes you nervous…”

“That’s an understatement,” Didi remarked with a short, humorless giggle. Unease still lingered in her tone, but her brilliant smile was inching back, bringing light back to her sweet, young face. “But, enough of that—I don’t want to talk about your knight.”

You brought your fingers up to the harpsichord’s wooden keys, and Didi turned back around in her seat so she could face the instrument. A mischievous, teasing chuckle left your lips, and you grinned slyly at Didi. “Thank the gods,” you simpered impishly. “I remember when he was _all_ you would talk about.” You tapped one of the keys, and then brought your other hand to pinch Didi’s cheek. “It was so adorable—your little crush.”

A hot, red blush rose to Didi’s face, and she batted your hand away. “You’re one to talk,” she replied quickly, struggling to keep her bashful gaze even with yours. “You always droned on and on about that Adalleth guy—how handsome and wonderful he was and—”

The warmth in the room fled, and Didi’s voice died in her throat when she realized her mistake. The embarrassment in her cheeks drained from her face, leaving it pale and cold—like the skin of a corpse. Her pretty eyes must’ve been wide—the size of dinner plates—but you weren’t looking at her anymore.

“[Name]…”

“Don’t.” You sucked in a breath of air and held it in your lungs. Isil had made the same mistake only a few hours ago, but the wound was still just as fresh—as tender—as it had been just a couple of hours ago. As it had been the day you’d learned of his death. “It’s…it’s fine. I should be over it.” You forced a laugh. “Don’t feel too bad about it, Didi—Isil did the same thing just a while ago.”

You lifted your gaze to meet Didi’s. The look in her eyes was tender, and it made you feel small—like you were the younger sister, desperate for guidance, for comfort. But you weren’t her little sibling—she was yours. You were supposed to be her guide—her protector. You were supposed to be the one offering her comfort.

Not the other way around.

“Let’s talk about something else, hmn?” You glanced back at the harpsichord and tapped a short, simple little tune. “How about your song? You said you’d learned a new one, right?”

Didi tried for a smile, and a little bit of the warmth that Adalleth’s name had chased away came crawling back—a counterattack against the uncomfortable cold. “Oh yes!” Real, vibrant excitement slipped into her voice, and her grin grew wider as she recalled the new melody she’d learned. “Ali taught it to me.”

Confusion crept up your skin, and you furrowed your brows. “Ali?”

“Alourli,” Didi supplied, as though a full first name would jog your memory. She placed her hands on the lower keyboard and straightened her spine, but glanced at you out of the corner of her eye. “He’s one of the guards. You’ve probably seen him—he says he’s usually by the garden. He says he’s seen you there—you and Isil.”

Didi began to play, and her music was lovely—beautiful and mesmerizing—but something was chewing at your heart. Worry—a suspicion—slowly bleeding into your mind, growing louder and louder alongside Didi’s music.

It was the way she’d said his name—the excitement that had sparked in her eyes, the soft lilt to her voice. You’d recognized it.

You’d seen it before.

“Didi…this Alourli man,” you began slowly. Your sister was still playing, and you knew it was rude to interrupt her—to seem as though you were disregarding her wonderful song—but you had to ask. You had to know—to be sure. “How have you—how has he had time to teach you a new song? He’s not a tutor; you said he was a guard.”

“Well, yes,” a frown played at Didi’s lips, dimming her warm, excited smile, “he is, but we’ve…been seeing each other. Often.”

The coldness came creeping back, crawling up your spine and into your heart. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we’ve been…hanging around each other.” She hit a chord but her finger slipped, and it fell flat. She winced. “Like you and Isil.”

“Isil is my personal guard. He was appointed by our father to protect me.” You frowned at Didi, and the shaking cold gave your voice an unintended edge. “What you have with this Alourli—whatever _it_ is—isn’t the same. This Alourli man is not your guardian. He has no business seeing you.”

Didi’s smile disappeared—replaced by a bitter, upset frown. “He has plenty of business!” she replied sharply. Her fingers stilled, and the lovely music that had been winding up from the harpsichord died. “And don’t talk about him like that. Like he’s—like he’s _lower_ than you. Like he’s inferior.”

“That’s how father and mother would talk about him,” you replied just as sharply. As succinctly. Didi flinched at your words—at the thought of the king and queen—and immediately guilt sunk its teeth in your heart, dulling the heat of your ire. “Didi, they would never…father and mother would never…” You stopped, took a breath, and then tried again. You had to explain it to her—you had to get her to see just how fruitless a venture it was that she’d taken. “You can’t—you can’t see this man anymore. You have to stop, now.”

You brought your hands to her face, turning her head so that she was looking at you. Her skin was soft, and your actions were gentle. Supplication and worry glimmered in your eyes, bubbling up from the place in your heart that empathized with her struggle—that already knew how hopeless it was to dream for impossible things.

Didi wouldn’t meet your gaze, and her voice was soft when she spoke, soft and wavering, like a brittle branch in a strong wind. “I don’t—I don’t want to. I _can’t_.” She stared back into your eyes, and you saw it there, in her gaze—her greatest flaw. The one imperfection in her entire immaculate person. “[Name]…I love him.”

That word—the word you shouldn’t know. The word that didn’t belong here, amongst silk skirts and fine slippers. Here, with kings and queens and men and women who didn’t need hearts to live—who had sold them for wealth and safety and power.

She’d said it.

She’d _said_ it.

Horror filled your eyes and coated your face so thickly that you could taste it in your mouth—it was disgusting, so sour and bitter that you almost gagged on it.

“Dadya…” You dropped your hands from her face. You couldn’t look at her; you couldn’t meet her eyes. Her hopeful, hopeful eyes. It hurt too much. “Dadya, no…_no_.” It was too familiar—all too painfully familiar. “Father would never approve, Dadya. He wouldn’t—”

“I don’t care!” Didi interrupted you abruptly. There was still pleading in her eyes—begging you desperately to understand her—but there was defiance, too. Father wasn’t going to stop her. No rules or regulations were going to hold her back—keep her from her love. “I don’t care if Father doesn’t approve—_won’t_ approve. It doesn’t matter.”

“Dadya…”

“And I—I don’t care if you don’t approve, either.” A lie. She wouldn’t’ve told you if she didn’t care; this was too terrible a secret to tell without caring for sympathy. “I just—you just need to promise me you won’t tell anyone, [Name].” Didi grabbed your hands, and the supplicative look in her eyes grew brighter, heavier. “Please. You’re the only one who knows—the only one I’ve told.” She clutched your hands tighter. “You know what Father’ll do if he finds out.”

You stared at her, too surprised to say anything—too horrified to keep silent.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, and then a voice—Isil’s—calling out to you and Didi. “Princess [Name]? Princess Dadya?”

Didi’s gaze didn’t waver. Her eyes were so wide, so full of dreams and desires. Hoping for things that would never happen. Hoping for something that would never exist. “_Please_.”

You never imagined you’d be here—on the other end, being begged and supplicated to. Being asked for protection—for sympathy.

It was worse, here. Harder.

You wished you were the little sister, asking your elder sibling for help. You knew that role; you’d played it before.

And look how it had turned out for you.

You sucked in a breath of cold, biting air. “Okay, Didi.” And when you breathed it out, it was warm. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

Relief filled Didi’s eyes, and the worried lines in her forehead smoothed themselves out. She let out a breath you didn’t know she’d been holding. “Thank you.”

“Forgive the intrusion,” a voice piped up. Yours and Didi’s heads whipped around in the direction of the door. Isil stood there, half of him in the room, half of him out, with his hand on the door. You hadn’t heard it open. “But the Queen requests your attendance in the dining hall. It’s supper time.”

Surprise flashed across your face, and you jumped to your feet, your gaze flashing to the windows, where, just moments before, sunlight had been streaming in. Isil was right—it was supper time. The sun was setting outside; its dying light painted the sky in warm oranges and cold reds, and left the room much dimmer than it had been when you’d first entered.

You’d lost track of time.

“Oh—my bad,” you apologized to Isil with a frown. You helped Didi stand before walking over to the man, your sister in tow. “I hadn’t realized it had gotten so late.”

Isil smiled at you, and the grin was kind, comforting. “Don’t fret over it, my princess. It was no bother to wait for you.” Isil’s gaze slid to Didi, who shifted uncomfortably under his stare. You supposed it was because of the look in his eyes—when they regarded you, they were kind and warm, but when they looked upon others, they became guarded and cold. You used to wonder why. “But I’m afraid _your_ guard has left, Princess Dadya. I offered to take over for him, but if you do not wish for me to—”

“I take no issue with your presence, Sir Isil,” Didi replied curtly. She eyed Isil carefully, and though she tried for a polite smile, it was obvious that her words and her true feelings did not coincide. “My father put his faith in you, and you have yet to disappoint.”

Isil appeared unperturbed by your sister’s words, or by her blatant lie, and merely held up his cordial smile. “How wonderful to know.” His gaze flitted between you and your sister before finally settling on you, and his tight smile loosened. “Shall we head to the dining hall?”

“That would be nice.” You smiled, and Didi nodded in agreement.

She and Isil walked on either side of you on the way to the dining hall, and it made you uneasy—even more uneasy than you already were, knowing what you knew of your sister and her Alourli.

You hoped he was smart, for her sake. You hoped she didn’t love him as much as she thought she did.

And somewhere deep, deep inside of you—some part of you that you thought had died, had thought had turned to dust and ashes long ago—somewhere a teeny, tiny part of you hoped for them. Hoped and dreamed and wished they wouldn’t up like you and Adalleth.

Your sister deserved better.


	4. CHAPTER THREE

** iii. the princess and the peacemaker **

**executioner**  
// his arms were weak, his hands unsuited for the handle. the blade was heavy—too heavy for him to hold. but he had to—he had no other choice but to swing.

* * *

**_The king sat at the head of the dining table_**, and across from him, at the other end, was the queen. Sprinkled between them were four seats—two on either side. One used to belong to your elder sister, but now your brother’s wife occupied it, and she would remain there until your father’s passing—your brother’s crowning. Then her children would take her seat—yours and Didi’s, too.

Didi and you would have no more use for them. You would be just like your sister, Idryla—married, with a new set of chairs and tables to occupy.

“[Name]—Didi.” Your brother was the first to see you—his narrow, sympathetic eyes flashed from your face to Didi’s. When he greeted you, you heard sarcasm in his low voice—sharp, but not hurtful. At least not purposefully so. “How wonderful. You two have finally decided to grace us with your presence.”

You managed a sly grin. “Of course, Havel,” you replied, your tone just as sarcastic as your brother’s. Havel loved to tease, but the game was even more fun when he had a partner—a challenger. “How could we dare deny you our precious company?”

You sat down in your usual seat, across from Havel and his wife, Tealai, and between your father and Didi. Isil had broken away from you both once you’d entered the dining hall, moving to take his place against the wall, beside the other guards.

You wondered if Didi’s Alourli was among them—standing in the shadows, watching your father, knowing that one wrong move, one misplaced stare or charged look, would send him away. Far, far away, where he would never bother Didi again. Where he would wallow until Didi forgot him—until he became a memory.

Or a legend.

You heard a chair squeak as it was moved—scraping against the nice, expensive floors—and you focused your attention back on your siblings. Now was not the time to think—not of things that had no future.

Havel’s eyes glimmered with challenge, and he grinned wolfishly at you. You could see his teeth glimmering—shining in the candlelight underneath his beard. “Be careful, dear, or you might choke on your own ego.” He spoke mockingly, but lightly, as though his words were merely that—words, with no weight or meaning. Frivolous. Pleasure without substance.

“You might want to take your own advice every now and again, Havel,” Didi added. She usually didn’t take part in Havel’s games. She wasn’t good at them—at words. Not like Havel, who reveled in eloquence and prose; who could recite great literary works and monumental plays from memory. “Your head could use some shrinking.”

Havel’s eyes slid to Didi’s, eager and determined. What was better than one challenger, but two? “Well, aren’t you a hypocrite,” he simpered teasingly. “Here you are—the pot calling the kettle black.”

Didi frowned at him, and you could see her floundering, stumbling for a retort—a reply as flowery and pompous as your brother’s. “I—I’m no such thing—”

“Was that a stutter I heard, Princess?” Havel was too caught up in his own wordy revelry to see that Didi was no longer fond of his little game—that her enjoyment had been spent. He continued to press at her, to push her and prod at her, ignorant of her distress.

An inkling of panic wove itself under your skin, and you tried to get brother’s eye, to shoot him a warning look because if he kept pushing—if he kept advancing—he would cross a line. Didi’s line. But Havel wasn’t looking at you.

You turned your attention to Tealai, hoping she would stop him. She was closer—right at his side, just like a good wife should be. She was a kind woman, Tealai. Beautiful and kind. Pale hair, like straw, and cool, dusty blue eyes that sparkled with energy and life.

Vigor for life, and not all of it stemmed from the child she carried.

But she wasn’t looking at you, either. In fact, she wasn’t concerned at all with Havel’s and Didi’s conversation. She didn’t find Havel’s games all that stimulating, either, though her reasons differed. She was kind—sweet and kind and so good and pure that when you’d first met her you’d thought she was the bearer of one of the gods—but her head was like a foggy sky, covered with thick, cloying clouds that made her difficult to converse with but easy to persuade.

Kind, but not sharp. Sweet, but not quick-witted. A lovely flower; a lovely woman with a lovely heart.

And, hopefully, a lovely child.

Havel’s lips parted, and you saw his tongue rise in his mouth—a flash of muscle behind a row of white bone—and the panic buzzing underneath your skin flashed red hot. You had to stop him, before he pushed Didi too far—before he said something that meant nothing, but which to your little sister was everything.

“Havel—”

“Stop with this nonsense at once,” your mother spoke up abruptly, cutting you off—drowning out your plea before it ever had the chance to swim. Her voice was like a whip—sharp and stinging, demanding respect, and oozing authority. “It’s childish and annoying, and I won’t have any more of it.”

Your gaze flew to the end of the table where your mother sat, regal and poised, with her back straight and her piercing, threatening eyes narrowed. Her lips were pulled into a frown, and she’d placed her fork back down on her plate—as though it was the food that had disgusted her, not Havel’s innocent and childish game. A game he played all the time.

All the time.

Havel frowned at your mother, and the excitement in his eyes flickered in and out, like the flame of a dying candle. “It’s just harmless fun, mother.” His voice was silvery, now—smooth and calm and pleasant to the ear. “Do you take issue with us amusing ourselves?”

But your mother was not fooled by your brother’s flowery words or sweet voice, and she fixed her threatening glare upon him. Even now, now that you were older—no longer a vulnerable, meek child—that look, and the punishment it used to threaten, still sent a cold shudder down your spine.

“I do when it encourages frivolous immaturity,” she replied sharply, her narrowed eyes flashing. “I expect better from you, Havel. You are twenty-four now, and next in line for the throne. You should’ve put all these childish…_impulsions_ behind you.”

Havel opened his mouth to retort—to argue his case—but this time you caught his eye. A little shake of your head—a silent, pointed look—was all it took, and Havel reluctantly pressed his lips into a thin, unhappy line.

“Of course, mother.”

He could bring up the argument again, later. Supper time was for supper—not for unpleasant verbal altercations.

A little cough came from the other end of the table, where your father sat. It was a closed kind of cough—a clearing of the throat, the kind used when trying to gain the attention of another. Your gaze fled quickly to his at the sound of the noise, and you regarded him with mild intrigue. After entering the dining hall, you hadn’t paid the man any attention, but now you saw that an excitement burned in his eyes. It was harmless eagerness, but it brought a feeling of heavy dread to your heart, like when your sister had first mentioned Alourli to you.

You felt the dread trickle into your organs, pooling in the pit of your stomach like mercury.

“Speaking of thrones,” your father started tentatively but brightly. He had a small, excited smile on his face, and his eyes flickered briefly between the faces of your family. “I’m not sure if you all were aware, but we were visited by an ambassador from the Ceorid Kingdom today.” Your father’s smile grew brighter when he saw the looks of surprise that flashed across your siblings’ and mother’s faces upon hearing his news. “He came to discuss peace, via marriage between our kingdoms.”

The dread turned an icy, burning cold, and you tried to stifle your shiver. You tried to keep your expression neutral, but the blood had begun to drain from your skin—rushing back to your heart like a frightened animal.

_No. No—he’s not going to say it._

He’s not going to say what you’re thinking—what you’re fearing.

“And I’m very, very happy to say that we were able to come to a rather delightful agreement.” Your father’s smile widened into a satisfied, jubilant grin, and he chuckled a little. “There will finally be peace, and all King Orelus asks for in return is a daughter—a wife.”

You could hear the relief in his voice—relief, and happiness. No more war. No more fighting. No more death.

Peace was good—peace was always good.

So then why were you so afraid? Why did your stomach turn and twist? Why did you feel something crawling up your neck—lunch or dinner or that disgusting, slimy dread roiling in your gut—threatening to spill forward?

Why did you feel so _sick_?

“No lands, no people—no money?” Havel’s eyes were wide—surprise and disbelief shone in them as bright as your father’s smile. “Just…marriage? That’s…that’s absurd.” Havel leaned forward, suspicion crawling into his tone. “Are you _sure_ that’s all he wants, Father?”

“Of course!” Your father nodded vigorously, and for a moment he looked almost offended—insulted that his son would question his certainty in such a crucial and delicate matter. “His ambassador was very clear when explaining the details of his king’s terms.”

Your mother stared at your father, curiosity pushing frustration out of her eyes and face. “Well, if the criteria is so lenient, then you must’ve agreed to it, right?”

_No—no he didn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t._

“I did.” Your father leaned forward in his chair, the excitement in his gaze sparking. His eyes flickered to you, and the eagerness you saw in his smile made your stomach twist. “And [Name]—[Name], I’m so very excited for you, dear. The ambassador specially requested that _you_ be the daughter we marry off.” Your father paused, beaming brightly at you. You could see pride in his eyes, shining as brightly as day—so brightly that it hurt. Or maybe that was your tears. “Of course, the engagement isn’t set in stone yet—the ambassador can only agree to establish the _beginnings_ of such an arrangement. King Orelus himself will come later to finalize it, but I think—I think we have a very, _very_ good chance.”

You couldn’t breathe. There was something in your throat, stopping the air from getting through to your lungs. Your skin felt tight—too tight; you couldn’t move the muscles in your face, you couldn’t force your lips to conform to the shape of a smile.

The mask your tutors had tried to build for you had slipped from your grasp, and without it you were naked—vulnerable, in front of your family. In front of people who wanted you to smile, to act grateful and thankful, because if you didn’t then you were rude and arrogant.

Because if you didn’t then you would cry, and crying was selfish. Crying was a sign of greed.

How could you cry for yourself when it was through you that your people would finally find peace?

“That’s—that’s _wonderful_.” Your mother sounded so surprised—so elated. You wondered if she was smiling—it was so rare, to see her smile—but you couldn’t lift your head to look.

It was too heavy—your head. You had to look at your plate; you had to look down. It was the only way to keep the tears out of your eyes. It was the only way to force air into your lungs.

You couldn’t look at anyone—Didi or Havel or Tealai. Not if excitement burned in their eyes; not if relief filled their voices.

Your plate faded in and out of focus, and your vision wavered. Colors began to pool together, mixing with one another like paint on a canvas. Your eyes burned, and you blinked once, and then twice, stubbornly trying to keep your eyes dry—devoid of selfish tears.

Selfish dreams.

Your heard voices—talking, discussing selfless, important things. Discussing things that you should care for—things that you should be listening to.

But all you could hear was your heart, beating so loudly in your chest—in your ears.

And suddenly the room was too hot and too cold all at once, and your dress was too tight and your shoes were too loose and you had to get out because if you didn’t—

If you didn’t—

“Would you please excuse me?” You stood up abruptly, and your normally even voice wavered—the last bend before the wood broke. “I must attend to some—pressing matters.”

You didn’t wait for your father to acknowledge your appeal—to give you permission to live. Instead, immediately after making known your desires, you rushed from the room, and the guards at the door hurried to open it for you.

When you were out of the dining hall you walked quicker, and then you ran, and then you were sprinting down the hallways, tripping over your feet and your skirts but always catching yourself before you fell. You ran as though death was on your heels, as though running was the only way for you to cling to life, to dead dreams and false hopes.

You ran until you fell. Your foot caught on nothing, and you went crashing to the floor—fine skirts and jewelry and all. Your chin smacked the ground, and it sent hot, tingling pain up the sides of your face. For a second you even thought you’d tasted blood—perhaps you’d bitten your cheek or tongue during the fall—but then you realized the metallic taste was just a figment of your imagination.

There was no metal in your mouth—only salt, from your greedy tears.


	5. CHAPTER FOUR

** iv. the knight **

**friend**  
// for better, for worse. for richer, for poorer. for sickness and for health, he has had and held her. loved and cherished her. but death has come between them, and now he stands guard at the gate of her heart.

* * *

**_Isil didn’t wait to follow after Princess [Name]_. **Betrayal, like a dagger, had found a home in his chest, and the anger it had sharpened—the old, comfortable anger that had been lying dormant in the back of his skull—sunk its smoldering fangs into the flesh of his heart.

It made his blood hot; he could feel it boiling just underneath his skin, tightening his jaw and rolling his fingers into seething, shaking fists.

The king and queen spoke of peace. They spoke of the gods—how they had blessed their kingdom. They spoke as though all the years—all the _deaths_—had suddenly been erased. As though the last decade of horrific war and violence had been nothing but a bad dream—a long, grisly nightmare—and now they were all awake.

Now, the nightmare was gone—burning like the dew in the light of their disgusting peace.

He moved briskly through the hallways, hurrying after his princess—seething at his king’s words. Bristling. Fuming.

Bitter.

They never saw his body. They never heard his scream. They never watched the life fade from his young, vibrant eyes—to see it ripped from him, sucked up by the cursed sword that had torn through his flesh.

But Isil had; he had seen it all.

Death and cruelty. A monster who called himself man, who took the life from the vulnerable and the strong. Whose cold, empty eyes burned with nothing but icy malice. A monster. An honorless, vicious bastard.

And now they wanted peace.

Isil rounded the corner briskly, and then he suddenly stopped. His hot breath caught in his throat, and a heavy coldness ran through the thick, boiling blood sizzling just under his skin. His eyes grew wide—shock and then hot worry flashing in them—and then he moved forward again, quickly—suddenly.

Princess [Name] was cowering in the hallway—slumped on the floor with her head in her hands. Her skirts pooled around her, and her shoulders shook with heavy sobs. He could hear them—shuddering, cutting through his anger and filling him with fear. With guilt and worry and weighty, pressing desperation.

He’d only ever seen her cry once. Three years ago—when he came back to the castle. When the king knighted him—honored him for his false heroics. When _he_ came home, but Adalleth didn’t, and she’d wondered why.

And then he’d told her—Adalleth was never coming home.

_It should’ve been him._

He had promised Adalleth he’d keep her safe. He had taken an oath to preserve her from injury. He had sworn to himself to never let harm come to her.

She was the princess—_his_ princess—and he couldn’t fail to keep her secure. Not again. Never again.

“[Name]!” He took in a sharp, sudden breath and ran to her, collapsing at her side with his arms stretched out—out to hold her, to guard her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, to embrace her and hold her tightly to him. He could keep her in his arms; he could keep her safe from the world, from the cruel, vicious monster her father had called a king.

But as soon as he touched her—as soon as he brushed the sleeve of her elegant dress—her cries quieted, and her trembling spine straightened. He watched her raise her head—saw a glimpse of her wet, glistening face—before she wiped it clean with her handkerchief.

“O-oh. Excuse m-me. I—I’m just—” Hiccuped breaths interrupted her quick, quiet apology, and she pressed the handkerchief once more to her eyes before meeting his gaze. Suddenly relief flooded her wet gaze, and the hardness—the false firmness—that had straightened her spine waned. “Oh. Isil—it’s just—” she took a shuddering, shivering breath, “—it’s just you.”

Yes, just him. Him and her. No other guards—no other servants. Not here, in this hallway. No one else. No one else to see her cry—to see her vulnerable.

Only him.

“[Name].” He stared at her, into her wet, red-rimmed eyes. Into those beautiful, lying eyes. They haunted his dreams; they were his only comfort in his nightmares. He remembered when hope shined in those eyes. He remembered when those eyes used to burn with bright eagerness, and how he would crave for that excitement. How he would yearn to be regarded by them—to be the reason they burned so brightly.

And now—now he wanted to be the one to bring the brightness back.

If only he knew how.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. It was his fault. All his fault. He was the reason why she was crying—he was the reason she had to marry the king, why the marriage was even an option in the first place. If he had just been faster. If he had been more _aware_. If he hadn’t failed. If he weren’t cursed. “I’m _so_ sorry.” His gaze fell to his hands—they’d fallen, and now they were in his lap. The coarse leather was smooth but heavy against his skin. Still heavy, even after all the years he’d worn them, but easy to carry. Easy, now that he was used to the burden. “You were right and—and the king—the king’s wrong. But I can—we can still—”

“Isil.” Her voice was soft when she spoke, but it stopped him just as succinctly as a yell. He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and in her glistening eyes, he saw a somberness—an acquiescing sadness. A gray acceptance. “Would you—would you please help me to my room?”

Right. Because they were still in the hallway, and she was still vulnerable, and they couldn’t risk being seen. _She_ couldn’t risk being seen. Not while she was so defenseless.

He almost didn’t want to say yes; he almost didn’t want to agree to her simple request. Who cared if anyone saw them? Who cared if anyone saw _her_? It was _his_ duty to keep her safe; it was _his_ duty to be strong if she was weak—and even when she wasn’t.

His duty to keep her safe. His desire to keep her well.

“Of course, Princess.” He nodded and took her gently by the arm. He could feel the shape of her arm—the bone, the flesh—beneath his fingertips, separated from skin by leather and velvet. He wished he could touch her without the barrier of fabric—flesh on flesh, with no leather in between to divide. “Of course.”

But he couldn’t touch her—not with his bare hands. His cursed hands.

They stood together, with one of his hands at her back and the other holding her arm. Her spine was straight when she stood, her shoulders thrown back, but her legs shook—he could feel the tremors, arcing up her back, buzzing in the palm of his hand. What a front she put on—what a dishonest, convincing show.

He hated it. He hated the world, for making her learn the script for such deceit.

He wished there was another way.

“There has to be something else—some other course of action we can take.” He started speaking again, lowly, murmuring the words into her ear. Like it was a comfort, like he was whispering sweet nothings to her. Soothing nothings. And as he spoke his voice got tighter, firmer—strengthened by the old, comfortable anger. “The king—he—he’s gone _mad_, [Name]. How can he believe—or even_ think_—that this—this maneuver is good?”

Her head lifted slightly, and he could see her lips, how they struggled to rise—to form a reply. “Peace is always good,” she replied softly. Her voice was a whisper—light, like gossamer fabric, but lacking firmness. Lacking resolve.

He didn’t believe her.

She couldn’t think that—she couldn’t _believe_ that this way of garnering such accord was salubrious. She only said what she did because it was correct—because it was what the king and queen would want her to say.

What that _monster_ wanted them to believe.

He squeezed her arm and pressed his hand more firmly against her back. The familiar anger pressed against him, urging him to push forward—to at least _try_ to get her to acknowledge the lie. The deceit. Because the king was _wrong_—this wasn’t peace.

This was surrender; the king was succumbing to the authority of a tyrant, but he wouldn’t feel the sting. Never was it the burden of those who waged the wars to pay the cost. The burden fell instead to those beneath them—those under their power.

Princess [Name] would suffer the consequences of his decision. Princess [Name] was the good exchanged for the service of peace.

The sacrifice for their cruel, mortal god.

“But, _[Name]_—”

“I don’t wish to discuss the matter any longer.” Her quiet voice was suddenly firm—the strength she had been lacking. The resolve he had missed. Her posture became rigid again, and it put space between them. He could feel it—a barrier of air between leather and velvet. “What’s been done is done—there’s nothing we can do to solve it—to change my father’s mind.”

Isil’s frown deepened, and then he swallowed. They had come upon the door to her room, but he didn’t want to leave her just yet. Anything and everything—he would do that, and more, for her. Only for her. He would give her another choice; he would make another option for her. He would do whatever she wanted and even that which she didn’t if it would make her happy.

He promised he would—the king, Adalleth, _himself_. He _swore_.

“But—but—” he floundered for a reply, for some other option besides that which the tyrant and his king had given, and then suddenly he found it—the choice he had always desired to provide for her, but had never had the courage to do so, “—but what if I married you first?”

Her eyes flew to his, and then she froze. They were so wide, her eyes—wide and full of shock and confusion and…and…

And something else—something that might’ve been relief, or repulsion, or anger—something that was pushed out of her eyes, forcefully hidden by that deceitful front.

She stepped away from him, but he held tight to her arm, keeping her from running, from trying to escape to her room. She wouldn’t have to worry about him if she went there; he couldn’t follow her into such a space. “Don’t—don’t joke about something so—so _serious_, Isil—”

“I’m not joking. Why would I?” His gaze didn’t waver, and neither did his voice. He stared brazenly back into those beautiful, stunned eyes, and he cast aside his hesitance and fear and doubt. For what did he have to fear? “The king will give me your hand if I ask for it—he _has_ to.” He bridged the distance between them as he spoke, his movements as sure as his resolve. His voice swelled in accordance with his confidence, and he brought his face closer to hers. “I’m his blessed ‘war hero’—his living legend. He wouldn’t deny me—he can’t.”

She closed her eyes, as though doing so would stop him—would make him any less right. “I know—I know.”

“Then marry me.” And now there was supplication in his tone—a pleading undercurrent beneath his confidence. A desperation for her acceptance. For her love. “_Marry_ me, [Name]. You won’t have to worry about Orelus anymore. You won’t have to worry about needing to marry him.” He grabbed her hands, brought them together, and then held them up to his chest. Never once did he look away from her—never once did he set his eyes on anything but her face. “I won’t ask the king for your hand if you say no, but—but, _please_—think about _yourself_, for once.” And when he continued, his voice was quieter, gentler, but still honest—still firm and brazen and hopeful. “I’ll make you _happy_.”

He could see her beginning to slip—to concede to his pleads. It was in her face—in the smoothing of her creased forehead; the softening of her frowning mouth. Her resolve was crumbling, and the hope in his heart blossomed, filling his chest—bringing a lightness to his eyes. He could see it—everything he’d always wanted. Everything he’d always wished for.

It was so close—so, so close. He could almost taste it. So sweet, so savory—so, so _wonderful_.

It was no wonder Adalleth had died for it.

She forced her eyes back open and tried to meet his stare, but she struggled, and her voice wavered. “But—but the war—”

“You aren’t the king’s only eligible daughter, [Name].” Isil started softly—carefully. He brought one of his hands away from himself and to her face, like he’d always wanted to. Touch her—touch her like he’d been afraid to. Like he dreamed to. But not without gloves. “If he still wants this—this _peace_, if it can be called that—then he can still marry off his other daughter.”

His thumb grazed her cheek—or, rather, it was the leather of the glove near his thumb that brushed against her face—and he imagined the feel of her skin beneath the pads of his fingers. He imagined what it would be like to touch her, now that his mind had less to fabricate.

Now that he had stood so close to her. Now that he at least knew what it felt like not to have Adalleth between them.

“Didi?” The name was at first a whisper, an afterthought sent out on the coattails of a soft exhale. And then she realized the name that had left her lips, and the breath came rushing back in a gasp, and her eyes flew open. “No—_no_. Not her—not Didi.” The door that had been made wide was abruptly slammed closed, and she flung her head back—tore her body away from him. Made space between them. “I can’t—I can’t do that to her, Isil. I _won’t_.”

He’d made a mistake; he shouldn't have said anything about Didi.

He should’ve known.

But he had been too eager—too caught up in his own delight at finally having his dreams realized. And still he was, and when he tried to counter her argument—when he tried to convince her that the choice he had given was better—his voice was loud. Loud and angry and desperate. “But if you marry Orelus—”

“Then I will be fulfilling my duty to my kingdom.” She spoke sharply—succinctly—and for a moment, her voice sounded almost like the queen’s.

He had crossed the line.

The firmness was back in her eyes—the resolve that had once been crumbling was made strong.

The door was closed, and if he pressed any further, then she would lock it. Bolt it. Permanently seal it off from his reach.

And all because she wouldn’t allow Didi to take her place.

He knew his chance was gone—he knew she wouldn’t listen to anything else he had to say, but he couldn’t leave her yet. Not without making one last, desperate try. “[Name]—”

“That is all, Sir Isil.” Her tone was final; her eyes were guarded and firm. But she wouldn’t meet his eye—not without looking away.

His words had done _something_, and maybe, maybe the door was still open—a crack, perhaps. A sliver.

But only for tomorrow—for later.

He couldn’t touch it today; he’d already done enough damage.

Without waiting for him to grab it for her, she turned and opened the door to her room. And just before she disappeared into the confines of it, she sent him one last glance—one last guarded, narrowed look. “Your assistance is no longer required. You may take your leave.”

He swallowed his disappointment—his regret. They were sour in his mouth. Nothing like the taste of a dream finally realized.

Nothing like the feel of her skin against his.

But he knew his place. He knew his princess. And he knew he had overstepped; he knew he had made a mistake.

But he knew his reason—his rationale—wasn’t wrong.

And she knew, too.

He bowed his head to her, and he tried to keep his tone even—diffident. As nonchalant as his voice should be as a knight talking to a princess. “Thank you for allowing me to serve you today, my princess.”

It was an honor.

A pleasure.

Torture, to be so close to someone, and still so far away.

He could’ve suffered it if Adalleth was there. Then he’d be able to bury his own discontent beneath the love for a friend—for the happiness of him and her, together.

For that was what love was—for Isil, at least. It was the wanting of the betterment of those that were beloved. Their happiness; their fulfillment.

Perhaps that was why it hurt so much to see them suffer.


	6. CHAPTER FIVE

** v. the princess and the queen **

**mother**  
// eyes as hard as stone, and skin as smooth as silk. her voice is her weapon; her words are her blades. she is authority. she is fear. she is hate, but the child calls her love.

* * *

**_Every day following your father’s announcement_ **was one of preparation. Your mother ordered the servants to ready the castle for King Orelus’s advent, and so every morning of the five weeks it would take for King Orelus to arrive they would rise to meet her demands. Some days you would catch glimpses of them, rushing through the halls, washing and dusting and ensuring no crack or crevice was large enough for an intruder to slip through.

But most days you didn’t see them at all. Most days you were too busy following your mother’s directions on how to act proper and queenly and listening to her chastise your lack of exceptional qualities to pay much mind to the servants.

In the morning she and you would gather in her sitting room together—just like you used to when you were younger. When you were just a girl and Idryla was just your sister and Didi was just a child. When your greatest worry was being able to satisfy your etiquette tutor’s demands.

When you were just another princess, and Adalleth was just a guard’s son, and the worst trouble you ever got into was stealing pastries from the kitchen with him and Isil.

But Idryla was married now. Didi was grown now. And now your greatest challenge was trying to learn how to satisfy a king—to present yourself in the most redeeming of lights. Because you needed him to want you. You needed him to think you would make a good queen. A good subordinate.

Because tyrants did not have partners. Tyrants did not have equals. They sat at the head of the table, and everyone else fell below them. Everyone else bowed to them—kissed their feet and hailed the ground they walked upon. Everyone else made themselves smaller so the tyrant could be large.

Everyone else sat so the tyrant could stand, and if they didn’t—if they tried to make themselves his peer, his equivalent, then he would kill them.

He would kill their people.

_You didn’t want to die._

You didn’t want anyone to die.

So you woke early every morning, and you walked with Isil to your mother’s sitting room, and you bowed your head to her, and you did everything you could to make her happy with you. Proud of you. But it was hard to sit there quietly and nod your head to all that fell from her harsh, frowning mouth. It was hard to walk to her sitting room with Isil every morning.

It was hard to look him in the eye after what he’d said to you after your father’s announcement. When your gaze met his—when you greeted him in the morning—the memory of his proposal would surface in your head like the bloated body of a drowned man floating up from the bottom of a dirty river.

Marriage—he’d offered to marry you.

Marriage to save one from just that.

Why? Why had he given you such a chance—such an option? It was cruel. It was kind—far, far too kind. A way out—an escape from this terrible situation. From this unfortunate present and the otherwise inescapable future it promised.

You loved him for it.

You hated him for it.

He was selfless, to offer it. He was selfish, to think you would take it.

You didn’t want to marry him. You didn’t want to marry anyone. Your heart wasn’t your own to give, not anymore. You’d already offered it up—you’d already given it away—and you couldn’t take back what wasn’t yours to take.

But still, some part of you _did_ want to marry him. It was the part of you that kept thinking back to his proposal, carrying it back up to the shore of your mind like a persistent current. It was the part of you that wouldn’t let you forget that marriage to Isil was an option—that marrying King Orelus really wasn’t as necessary as you wanted it to be.

Not for you, anyway.

Isil was right. But he couldn’t be right; if he was right then you were wrong, and being wrong wasn’t an option. You couldn’t be wrong.

And you couldn’t marry Isil because if you did then Didi wouldn’t have a choice. Then Didi would suffer because you wanted to be free.

And Didi deserved better. Didi deserved to be happy.

Didi deserved to have what you couldn’t.

You _wanted_ her to have what you couldn’t.

“You’re slouching.” Your mother’s voice was sharp, like a sword. Like a whip, cracking above your head, splitting your troublesome thoughts into incomprehensible fragments. Forcing you to leave the dark, entangling waters of your mind—to surface in a room decorated in rich red velvet and luxurious animal furs.

At first, there was confusion—clouding your mind, filling up the empty spaces your spiraling thoughts had once occupied. You’d been beneath the waves for too long; you couldn’t remember where you were. What you were doing.

Why were you perched in one of your mother’s sitting room chairs? Why was she eyeing you so sharply?

And then you remembered—you were reviewing your old etiquette lessons with her. She was reminding you how to properly act while in the company of your equals and superiors. She didn’t want you to make a fool of yourself in front of King Orelus. The task of impressing him was much too imperative for there to be a risk of you botching it by forgetting the lessons your tutors had ingrained into your skull.

Immediately, you straightened your aching spine, bringing your head up and pushing your shoulders back. The action was almost automatic—almost knee-jerk—and if you had not been so submerged in your thoughts, your body likely would’ve straightened itself once it felt you slipping.

“My apologies.” You didn’t meet your mother’s eyes when you spoke—another force of habit, from all the days when looking into your mother’s eyes would fill you with fear and guilt. Would make you try even harder to impress her. But you couldn’t—not as a child, and not even now, as an adult. “I was lost in thought.”

You could feel your mother’s glare—disapproving and sharp, burning your skin. Pushing you down—making you small. Making you a child again.

Making you fearful again.

“Daydreaming?” She sounded angry. She sounded exasperated. Disappointed. Dissatisfied. Let down—by you. By what you couldn’t do. By what you should know and should be able to accomplish but always failed to—that goal you always, _always_, fell short of reaching. “Queens don’t daydream, [Name]. Frivolous princesses, maybe—but not queens.” And now you could hear the frown in her voice. And you could feel the weight it laid on your shoulders, tugging them down—pulling your chin to your chest. You tried to fight it. You tried to keep your head up and your shoulders pushed back. “I thought you’d grown out of that horrible habit.”

Your hands shook in your lap, and you tried to keep them still, to force the mask to become chains, binding your wrists together. Keeping them motionless—as calm as your expression. As indifferent as your shaking voice.

But your voice shouldn’t shake, either.

“I have, Mother—believe me, I have.” Your voice was quiet when you defended yourself—quiet but firm. Because your mother would push if you were soft. Because your mother would push even if your voice was as hard as stone. “It’s just—I have much to think on, now.” You lifted your gaze and met your mother’s eyes for a short, fleeting moment. “Marriage, for one. I’ve always wanted to be married.”

Your mother had brought a teacup up to her lips—porcelain, with beautiful, swirling, gilded designs—but after hearing your reasoning—your defense—she lowered the cup. “All good women want to be married, [Name].” Her tone was flippant—dismissive—but still your heart rose a little at her words. It was a force of habit, but you felt it nonetheless. Good women—she’d called you a good woman. “But that still doesn’t excuse your childish daydreaming. A man like King Orelus doesn’t want a queen incapable of keeping her head out of the clouds.” Your mother’s frown deepened. “It’s disgustingly improper.”

The feeling that had carried your heart skyward suddenly vanished, and your heart was left falling, flailing as it fell back into its rightful place on the floor beside your feet.

“Yes, Mother. I know, Mother.” You nodded your head obediently. Obedient—you were obedient. And subordinate. And compliant. “I promise I won’t let it happen again—I swear. I’m not a daydreamer anymore.”

Your mother brought the cup back up to her lips and took a quiet, quick sip. “You should never have been one to begin with.”

A crack—you felt it—a break in the mask. But you’d fixed it up so perfectly after that night. The night that had been buried for four weeks now. You’d picked the old one up off the floor, and you’d thrown all of its multitudinous pieces away. And then you’d fashioned a new one—a _better_ one—there, in the safe confines of your room.

The new one was supposed to be stronger—was supposed to fool everyone and anyone. Even Isil.

And especially your mother.

You tried to ignore the crack; you tried to smile through it—over it. “May I be excused, Mother?” You smoothed your skirts with your hands, and watched the creases in them disappear beneath your palms.

“Why? Where else do you need to be?” Your mother’s sharp gaze dug at you, and it was a trial to swallow the shiver rolling down your spine. “There’re still lessons I wish to review.”

_Of course there are_.

You smiled sweetly at your mother, and, with a small, dull spark of flickering confidence, you lifted your gaze and met hers without flinching. “I was planning on paying a visit to the shrine, to petition goddess Edite to aid us in our troubles.”

Your mother’s eyes widened a small, inconsequential fraction, but you were watching for the change, and when you noticed it a small, fleeting wave of satisfaction washed over you. It was so gratifying, to see her look surprised—to see her face contort into any other expression besides disappointment or sharp, angry judgment.

“Well, if that is your reason,” your mother folded her hands in her lap, her movements as neat and deliberate as her tone, “then I have no qualms with excusing you.” She inhaled slowly and then lifted one of her hands to wave at you dismissively. “Take as much time as you need.” Then a sigh fell from her frowning lips, and she looked slowly around herself. “I believe we’re done here, anyway.”

You bowed your head to her. “Of course, Mother. Thank you, Mother.”

Then you stood, as gracefully and delicately as you could. Because every action you took—every turn of the head and flick of the wrist—should be elegant. Should be refined and queenly.

Because hopefully—_hopefully_—in two days, you would be a wedding away from becoming a queen.

You moved toward the door to your mother’s sitting room, and one of the servants standing dutifully to the side moved to open the door for you. The servant bowed their head to you as you passed, and you spared them a fleeting glance.

You could never name the emotion that flickered in a nameless servant’s eyes when you ordered them around. Was it reverence, or fear that spurred them to fulfill your demands? Panic, or respect?

Did they follow you out of love, like Adalleth, or did the threat of punishment fuel their obedience, as it had for you as a child?

You didn’t know which answer you preferred—which was better. Love, or terror?

They were both equally dangerous.

“Princess [Name].” Isil was waiting out in the hall, as he always was. Every day, standing outside the door. Always within earshot; always ready to serve. Not out of fear—never out of fear. “You’re early.”

The door to your mother’s sitting room closed behind you; you heard it shut as you regarded Isil. His gray eyes were warm as they looked upon you. They were always so warm—so kind. But it had been so hard to meet them—to gaze upon them after that night.

It was hard now, even though four weeks separated today from that night. From his proposal.

You wished he hadn’t given you a choice. You wished the voice in your head that wouldn’t let you forget would die.

You wished fear was the reason Isil obeyed you.

And still, you wished it wasn’t.

“I asked to be excused.” You kept your voice even as you spoke—indifferent. Cruelly detached. You didn’t want to be aloof. You didn’t want to be cold. You wanted to be warm—kind, like the look in his eyes. But warmth meant agreement. Warmth meant the absence of fear, and you had terror in abundance. “I wanted to visit the shrine—to pray to goddess Edite.”

Isil nodded obediently, but the kindness was still there in his eyes. The cold tone in your voice hadn’t washed away the warmth in his gaze.

You didn’t deserve it—his kindness. You didn’t deserve all that he did for you.

You didn’t deserve a friend as loyal and compassionate as Sir Isil.

“Well—some wisdom would be quite lovely.” Isil’s lips quirked upwards—the hint of a warm smile. “We’re never in excess of that, are we?”

His smile—so kind and familiar. You’d seen it so often; you could paint it from memory alone.

It was cruel of him, to smile at you so kindly. It was unkind of him, to act as though that night had never happened.

As though he had never given you a choice.

But weren’t you trying to do the same?

“Unfortunately, no,” you replied curtly. You started walking, and Isil followed you. Always dutiful. Always loyal. “Things would be so lovely if we were.”

Isil looked ahead. “Perhaps.” His lips twitched, and his smile almost became a frown. “Though I'm sure, even with all the wisdom in the world, we’d still find some way to mishandle everything.”


	7. CHAPTER SIX

** vi. the princess in waiting **

**promised**  
// the cloud grows on the horizon—black and ugly, bearing the threat of war, and the promise of death. she watches it approach, hope curdling in her stomach, and fear flooding her chest.

* * *

**_The shrine had been built near the aviary greenhouse_. **Or, rather, the greenhouse had been built near the shrine, to honor goddess Edite. She was your family’s patron goddess—the deity you directed all your pleas for protection and admissions of thanks toward.

And there was so much you were thankful for—so much you wanted to be protected from.

Too much.

You took the scenic, curving path to the shrine—the one dotted with vibrant cornflowers and blood-red poppies, where you could walk as close as you could to the willow tree growing near the shrine without stepping off the stony path. Your grandfather had planted it—the willow tree. He’d done it to show gratitude—to make known his infinite thanks to goddess Edite for sparing his life in the war.

You wondered if he’d ever questioned why she had chosen to save him, and not one of the soldiers under his command.

Maybe she’d thought his life more valuable. Maybe she’d thought sparing him would make up for all the persons she didn’t save.

Maybe he’d just been lucky.

You chose to think he hadn’t been; you chose to think the gods cared for those in their custody.

What other reason would they have to permit you to exist?

“Isn’t the weather wonderful today?” The light-hearted question fell effortlessly from your smiling lips, as bright and amicable as the sunlight warming your skin. Your steps toward the shrine were light and feathery, unchained by bothersome concerns or guilt-ridden memories. Stormy worries faded from your mind, burned away by a fierce, joyful sun. A sun that knew no night or rain.

Only day—only light.

For here, in the presence of the gods, mortal concerns held no clout. Here, theirs was the only authority you had to fear.

“Yes.” A smile played at Isil’s lips, prompted by the sight of your own joyful grin. He followed closely behind you, and as you neared the steps leading up to the shrine, he grabbed you politely by the elbow—to steady you if you tripped. “I suppose it is.”

A contented sigh fell from your lips, and you paused to place the mask quietly to the side. You had no need for it while in the presence of the gods.

“How kind of the gods,” you mused softly, your gaze flickering to the glorious blue sky, “to bless us with such lovely sunshine.”

You felt Isil’s grip on your arm tighten, and when he spoke, his words sounded strained—false. An imitation of agreement. “Oh, yes. How wonderfully…_charitable_ of them.”

Your gaze fled to Isil, and, for once, you let your feelings run freely across your face. Confusion and concern mixed together in your eyes, and you stared at Isil without worry of needing to hide your true thoughts.

Something like resentment swam in your friend’s sharp gaze, and the smile that had once been playing at his lips had soured into a bitter frown. But then he felt your gaze on him, and the sharpness in his eyes was dulled by a sudden worry—a sudden concern for the cause of the troubled look decorating your face.

“Is there something the matter, my princess?” Isil drew closer to you—closer than you would have liked him to stand. Farther than he would’ve stood before the talk of a peace treaty.

If you were not near the shrine, you would have lied. You would have pushed the topic aside, saved it for a safer time. A more appropriate time. But here, you were not ruled by the fear of men.

Here, you would never act in dread of mortal punishment.

You opened your mouth to respond to Isil—to inquire as to the cause of the bitterness that had lingered in his gaze—but the voice of the shrine caretaker made you pause.

“Your Highness! What a pleasure it is to see you.” You turned away from Isil to meet the familiar, clear gaze of the shrine caretaker. A smile rested on the elder woman’s lips as she approached you, and you grinned just as cheerfully back at her, but then you caught sight of the young man walking tentatively beside her, and the mask that you had put to the side came back into your careful hands.

The man wore neither the plain garb of the caretakers nor the ornate robes of an augur; instead he was dressed in the familiar uniform of a castle guard, complete with chest piece and sword. His face was young and hair a plain and soft looking brown color, and though his eyes were wide and devoid of any hardness, a wariness was settling in your chest.

Gossip spread quickly through the castle—fueled by the hushed whispers of those who served.

“The same for you, Caretaker Aleer.” You smiled politely at the woman, but kept a careful eye on the guard standing at her side. He had yet to realize your presence; there was a faraway look in his eyes, as though he were deep in thought.

There was something familiar about him—some look to his young, open face that you had seen before.

“You there,” Isil suddenly interjected. There was a hardness to his voice—a tone of firm, stony authority that you rarely heard him invoke. His gaze was narrowed and almost angry, and he directed the glare at the wide-eyed guard standing at Caretaker Aleer’s side. “Young guard, have you forgotten your place?”

The young guard’s eyes widened, and bright, pale fear chased the thoughtful look from his eyes. “S-Sir Isil! I, I—” Then his gaze fled to you, and the color drained from his face, leaving his skin a sickly, terrified gray. “—and Pr-Princess [Name].” Immediately he fell to his knee and bowed his head, and a terrible tremor shook his body. “My—my sincerest apologies, Your Highness. I—I’m so sorry. I meant no disrespect—”

Pity filled you, chasing away the caution that had taken residence in your chest. The poor boy was shaking like a leaf—quivering with fear of punishment for forgetting to bow to his princess.

But here, you were no princess. The kings and emperors of mortal men and women had no authority in the place of the gods.

And this poor, wide-eyed guard deserved neither punishment nor reprimand for forgetting to show respect to a mortal authority.

“And there was none given.” You stepped away from Isil, moving out from under his hold. You spoke softly—kindly—to the brown haired guard and lowered yourself so that you did not speak down to him, but toward him. “Why do you shake so? You’ve nothing to fear. Lift your head—come on.” You placed a hand on the guard’s shoulder, and though he flinched at first at your touch, the sound of your soft, silky voice was like a soothing balm, and, tentatively, he raised his head. “You won’t be punished—you’ve done nothing wrong.”

The guard’s eyes met yours. They were a deep, blueish green, and though they swelled with vibrant terror, the fierceness of it began to fade when they lighted upon your kind smile. The guard swallowed. “I forgot my place—”

“You forgot nothing.” You rose back to your full height, and the guard followed your actions, getting slowly back to his feet. Though his legs shook with residual fear, the terror was all but gone from his eyes. “We are all but lowly mortals in the presence of the divine. Sir Isil was not thinking clearly when he addressed you.”

You spared a glance over your shoulder at the aforementioned man, whose sharp gaze flickered between you and the young guard. There was something unreadable in his eyes—some bitterness, some unkindness, that looked almost like resentment.

Or regret.

“Would you tell me your name, young sir?” You turned back to the young man and offered him another warm, comforting smile. “So that I may ensure no unjust punishment is wrought against you?”

The young guard met your compassionate smile at first with timidity, and then a small grin crept shyly across his lips, chasing away his fear, and allowing you to see clearly the kindness and gentleness it had obstructed. “Alourli. My name’s Alourli, Your Highness.”

Without the mask to keep your smile in place, it fell without complaint, washed away by a tidal wave of surprise. You struggled to bring it back, to surface above your shock and the fear that followed swiftly after it.

Alourli noticed your change in expression—the way the brightness in your eyes seemed to drain, sucked up by terror—but before he had the chance to comment on it, Isil spoke.

“Go—return to your duties,” the knight ordered. His gaze was not as kind as yours, but still not nearly as hard as it had been when it had first regarded the guard. “I’m sure you’ve more than gone over the break time allotted to you.”

Alourli’s gaze fled to Isil, and, immediately, he bowed his head. “Yes—yes, Sir Isil.” He turned to you and bowed again. “Thank you for being so forgiving, Your Highness. Your unwarranted kindness is so very much appreciated.” He lifted his head. “It was an honor to meet you—both of you.”

And then Alourli was gone—hurrying off down the stone pathway toward his post. You didn’t watch him go; your eyes were glued to the spot where he had once been.

Alourli.

_“He’s one of the guards.”_

Hadn’t Didi talked of a man named Alourli?

Hadn’t she claimed to love such a man?

“Alourli.” The name fell from your lips in a whisper—like a prayer or a secret. A terrible secret, the kind that should never grace the ears of a stranger.

Or even those of a friend.

“What was that, Your Highness?” Caretaker Aleer asked kindly. You hadn’t realized it, but the woman had come up to you, and now stood beside you, her hands clasped in front of her. “Do you need something?”

You swallowed. The mask felt uncomfortable, here, in such a sacred place, but you needed it for just a few moments more—until you could trust yourself to smile without it.

“No—no I’m fine.” You inclined your head to Isil, and with just a quick glance of your eyes, he was there, at your side, one hand politely holding your arm. His presence was calming—invigorating. The smile that had struggled to rise to your lips came with sudden ease, and you grinned brightly and warmly at the shrine caretaker. “I was just thinking aloud.”

Caretaker Aleer nodded her head knowingly and returned your smile with one of her own. “Oh, of course.” She started walking, heading toward the doors of the shrine. “That does happen quite often here.”

You patted Isil’s hand, trailing your fingers rhythmically over his own. The leather of his gloves was coarse against your skin, but you didn’t mind. All that mattered was that he was there; all that mattered was that you weren’t alone.

“Does it?” You listed your head a touch to the side. You felt Isil’s shoulder brush against yours, but you didn’t move away. You needed it—you needed something else to think about.

Anything else but the dreams of a naïve girl.

“Yes—almost all the time.” Caretaker Aleer grabbed hold of one of the ornate wooden doors, and when she opened them you were greeted with the thick, sweet scent of incense. “The augurs say it’s the work of Mehreus—that he’s trying to gain what knowledge Edite can’t bring him.”

You breathed in the smell of the incense, and let your eyes fall briefly shut before forcing them open once more. “Really?” You soaked in the sight of the shrine—of the statue of Mitemis, surrounded by candles and bowls of incense, standing naked in the empty sand, and holding in her bare hands the seed of life—the beginning of the world. “But I thought the gods stripped him of such abilities.”

Caretaker Aleer genuflected to the statue, and you followed her lead, kneeling respectfully in front of the alabaster depiction of life’s creator. Isil moved more slowly than either you or Aleer, but he still remained in close proximity to you, and for that you were grateful.

“You are confused, Princess,” Aleer corrected you gently. She turned to look at you, and in her clear eyes, you saw a look of kind guidance, the sort that had never belonged to those of your tutors. “The gods imprisoned Mehreus, yes, but they didn’t strip him of his influence. To do so would be unwise.” Aleer turned her gaze back upon the statue of Mitemis, but kept her eyes lowered, directed to the goddess’s bare feet. “Mehreus seeks truth, Princess. Without him, we would be a nation of liars.”

You bowed your head, content with Aleer’s response. You closed your eyes, prepared to direct prayers for wisdom to goddess Edite, but then you felt Isil shift beside you.

“If the gods needed him so much, then why would they banish him?” You could hear sour displeasure in Isil’s voice, as though Aleer’s answer was not enough for him.

Caretaker Aleer kept her head bowed. “Because he was dangerous—”

“How?” Isil’s voice was sharp and angry, and you lifted your head, surprise and concern flashing across your face. Why was Isil acting so bitter and hostile? “How was he dangerous? He never hurt them. He never had a _chance_ to hurt them.” Something that looked like outrage burned in Isil’s sharp eyes, like he had been made suddenly aware of some great, egregious act of injustice. His voice began to rise like it had when he’d tried to convince you to marry him. “But they imprisoned him. For what? _Existing_? How is that fair? How is that _right_?”

Isil had begun to rise as he spoke, getting slowly but surely to his feet. Quickly, you latched on to his arm, hoping doing so would stop him—ground him.

His gaze flew to yours, and you flinched when you saw the look in his eyes—the indignation that burned in them. Indignation and…and something that looked like grief. Deep and terrible despair—the kind that knew no end. That stemmed from some gross wrongdoing—some horrific injustice.

A painful, aching wound that had never closed—that was bruised and blistered and bleeding.

A wound you hadn’t even known existed.

You parted your lips and tried to speak. “Isil—”

“The gods weren’t afraid of what _he_ could do to them, Sir Isil.” Aleer had looked up, and she met Isil’s wounded, furious gaze without flinching. “Mehreus was not who worried them; they knew he would do them no wrong.” Aleer’s voice was gentle, even. Like a mother’s. “They feared those who would harm Mehreus—who would use him to fulfill their own cruel designs.” Aleer closed her eyes. “They imprisoned him to keep him safe—not to cause him harm.”

Silence met Aleer’s response. The only sounds that met your ears were the hushed whisperings of the augurs and the rustling of cloth of the other shrine caretakers as they moved quietly about, ensuring that the bowls of incense were kept full and the candles remained lit.

And then the silence was broken.

“Then the gods are fucking idiots,” Isil hissed coldly. His voice was coated in icy anger and dripped with a poisonous, scorching hate. He ripped his arm free of your grip, and you watched with wide, horrified eyes as he stormed out of the room, moving so quickly that you didn’t have time to think to chase after him.

He threw open the doors when he reached them, and you flinched when they slammed closed after him, like the angry, piercing bang they made was not just noise but an action—a slap to the face, so sharp and stinging that it brought tears to your eyes and left your ears ringing.

Something painful had sunk its teeth into your heart and wrapped its cold, clawed hands around your lungs. Your eyes burned and you blinked once, twice, and perhaps a dozen more times, swallowing the ache until it had sunk back into the pit of your stomach.

Horror gripped your mind, and shock had all but killed your voice. And then you realized that your arm was still raised—your fingers were still curled around a hand that wasn’t there.

“I…” You brought your arm back, pressing it against your chest like it had been burned—cut by some invisible blade. “I…” You swallowed and curled your fingers up until your nails pressed into your palm. You could feel the tears, pressing against your eyes—threatening to spill over.

You didn’t understand Isil’s anger.

You didn’t understand why his words had brought tears to your eyes.

Or why you wanted to go after him.

“I’m so sorry.” You turned to Caretaker Aleer. The woman’s eyes were still closed, her head still bowed to the statue of Mitemis. And then you did the same, screwing your eyes shut and bending over until your forehead pressed against the thick, woven rug you kneeled upon. “I’m so, so sorry goddess Mitemis. Please forgive my friend. He—he didn’t mean to speak so…so _offensively_.” Your throat tightened, and suddenly the scent of the incense was too sweet—too thick. You couldn’t breathe. “Don’t punish him, _please_. Please don’t punish him. It was the heat—it must’ve been the heat. It got to his head—it got to his head and he wasn’t thinking properly and he didn’t mean it and—”

“Princess [Name].”

The rest of your quick, rambling prayers died on your tongue, silenced by the voice of a stranger—a newcomer. Slowly, you peeled your upper body off of the floor and lifted your head. At first, your vision was blurry, clouded by the wetness that had spilled from your eyes and trailed down your cheeks.

You paused to dry your face with your handkerchief before meeting the gaze of the person who had called your name, hoping—though it was unwise and so horribly unlikely—that it was Isil who had called to you.

It wasn’t.

Your eyes landed on the face of a nameless servant, who averted their eyes the moment you lifted your gaze.

“Yes?” you asked softly, making sure to keep the tremor from your voice. You got to your feet, and the servant helped you stand, offering you a steady, callused hand.

The servant immediately let go once you were standing and then brought their arms firmly to their sides. “King Orelus arrived earlier than expected, Your Highness.” The servant kept their gaze low—as far away from your face and your eyes as they could. “He requested to see you.” The servant paused a moment to breathe. “He and the king wait for you in the garden.”


	8. CHAPTER SEVEN

** vii. the princess and her king **

**tyrant**  
// in his eyes, she saw her undoing; in his hands, he held her love. she would sit so he could stand; she would suffer so he could thrive.

* * *

**_The panic humming in the back_ **of your throat was no illusion. You could feel it just as completely as if it were a weapon—the blade of a sword pressed firmly against your neck, threatening pain and punishment if you moved wrongly.

If you moved at all.

“Thank you.” You nodded to the servant, and you tried to keep your tone even and firm, but something made your voice catch—made the words waver as they fell from your lips. Mehreus, rising from his watery prison to force truth down your throat—to tug the mask out of your hands. “You may carry on with your duties. I will attend to my father and King Orelus shortly.”

The servant bowed to you—so obedient, so dutiful—and then they turned away, scurrying off as quickly and quietly as they had arrived. You watched them disappear—slip past the bodies of other shrine caretakers; pause in their exit to bow respectfully to the augurs—and then your thoughts turned inward. Like a betrayal; like a sinister trick, waiting for your defenses to lower.

Waiting for Mehreus to rise.

You felt him—Mehreus—in your mind. In your heart. Glorifying the truth and shaming your lies. He ripped the mask from your hands and held it far, far out of your reach, and then he brought all of that which you’d tried to drown up to the surface—up until they were all your terrified eyes could see.

And he read them to you—each and every one, whispered in that deep, silvery voice; the hiss of the serpent trapped beneath the water.

_“You don’t want to go to the garden.”_

But you couldn’t stay here—next to the shrine. Even if you wanted to you couldn’t.

Your mother would find you.

“It was wonderful to spend this time in your company, Caretaker Aleer.” Your lips refused to form into the shape of a smile—to attempt a lie while under Mehreus’s influence—but the evenness that your voice had lacked while in conversation with the servant had returned, weak but tangible. “I hope you are blessed with joy for the rest of your day.”

Caretaker Aleer raised her head and for a brief moment, her eyes met yours. “Your blessing is appreciated more than you could ever know, Your Highness, and I wish you the same—joy…and strength.” Her eyes fled to the statue of Mitemis, and a dark look flashed across her gaze. When she spoke again, her voice was low—soft, like the hiss of Mehreus in your ears. “If the king finds peace, I pray there is truth in it.”

A sour taste filled your mouth, and you tried to swallow it, but there was a weight in your stomach—a terrible, festering heaviness that twisted your intestines into tight, choking knots. A lie could never breed peace. “I will make sure to visit the shrine again—soon.”

Before you left, you bowed to the statue of Mitemis, and then you paused—just for a moment—to regard her. She was naked; she was vulnerable. She was all alone in an empty, barren world.

Had she found it frightening, being so alone? Had she been scared of the future, so unknowable and uncertain as it was?

No—she couldn’t’ve been. She was a goddess.

Gods have nothing to fear.

_If only mortals were so courageous._

You turned and made your way to the doors, and when you reached them the shrine caretakers standing nearby opened the doors for you. The sweet smell of incense faded away, replaced by the scent of growing things—living things.

_“You don’t want to meet King Orelus.”_

But you had to. It was a miracle—a blessing from the hands of the gods themselves—that your father had even managed to get so far as to actually entertain a meeting with the infamous king of the Ceorids, and you couldn’t waste such a glorious chance simply because you didn’t wish to greet King Orelus. To do so would be horrifically deplorable—disgustingly selfish.

Like crying.

You were so lucky—to be able to meet your possible husband before you were bound to him. Idryla hadn’t had the same chance; Didi likely wouldn’t either.

_Didi deserved better._

You had to meet King Orelus. You had to at least attempt to realize the dream that so many had died for.

You’d told Isil that peace was always good.

So it was.

Peace was always worth the means.

You walked slowly at first—a deliberate starting pace for your heavy feet. Each step was a careful deliberation—a thoughtful calculation of every inkling of energy used to lift the muscles in your leg and foot.

You walked as though you dreaded your destination—as though you were headed to the executioner’s block. But you were going to the garden, where the marigolds were blooming, and the air was thick with the scent of sweet blossoms. There was no executioner waiting for you in the garden—only your father and King Orelus.

You had nothing to fear—nothing to dread.

Certainty was what you needed, not worry. Worry couldn’t stop you from making a fool of yourself in front of King Orelus.

_“You wish Isil were with you.”_

But he had left—stormed off somewhere in the heat of his fury—and you didn’t have the time to go off and try to find him. You didn’t have the time to comfort him—to talk with him and uncover the source of his ire.

_But you wanted to._

You wanted to know what it was that bothered him—why he had left so furiously, burning with such fiery anger. Why he had let fall from his lips such poisonous, wrathful words. Words of condemnation, cursing the gods—the divine persons to whom you owed your existence. Your present and future and past—it all belonged to the gods. Came from them; owed to them.

Why had Isil spoken so hatefully of them?

You wanted to find him—to confront him and console him. You had seen in his face such horrible pain. Agony. How long you had been ignorant of it?

You wanted to soothe it—to rid him of the pain that plagued him.

_Why hadn't he said anything about it? Didn’t he trust you?_

But you couldn’t. Not now. You were needed in the garden; you didn’t have the time for solidarity—for companionship. You didn’t have the time to comfort or be comforted.

You couldn’t keep the kings waiting.

You started walking faster, and your leaden feet grew lighter with every step you took away from the shrine. Mehreus’s influence was fading; the truths he had carried to the surface of your mind began to sink again, shoved back under by determination—by a conviction to ensure the safety of your kingdom.

Peace was always good.

Mehreus’s whisper became softer—quieter. Easier to ignore—to reason against. There was no perfect truth—only a grayness. Only a thing that promised survival and contentment.

Survival came first—truth, second.

But before the imaginings you had tried to drown were fully submerged, Mehreus read one final thought. It came in a quiet whisper—a soft, fading hiss from the lips of the all-knowing—muttered so quietly that you almost didn’t hear it.

_“You wish you’d accepted his proposal.”_

A sharp inhale—a sudden, familiar feeling, pressing against your neck. It made your skin hot; it turned your blood a hard, icy cold. The heart in your chest swelled and then plummeted as it realized its mistake—its shortcoming.

But you didn’t stop walking.

You couldn’t stop walking.

_I don’t._ You slammed the insidious thought down—held it firmly under the water, where it thrashed fervently, throwing all of its weight into every pull and push of its body in the vain hope that it would escape from your grip. But those thoughts were wrong—those thoughts were _selfish_. _I don’t—I won’t—I don’t, I don’t._

You forced the thought down—pushed and shoved it underneath the water. It fought against your grip—it held on tightly to your arms, scratching and squeezing your skin—but then the grayness overcame it, and it began to sink back where it belonged. Deep, deep down, where you couldn’t think of it; where it couldn’t worry you.

_I want to fulfill my duties to my father and mother. I want my kingdom to be safe._

Those were your only wants—the only desires that were right.

You could embrace these thoughts; you could allow these thoughts to walk in the sunlight.

They were the only ones that mattered.

You exhaled—a soft breath, falling from your lips like a whisper—and your blood grew warm. Comfortable. Content.

Gray.

You were near the garden now; you could see the guards, still a ways from you, standing dutifully at the doors. There were more than usual, but not all were your father’s; the extra men wore foreign uniforms—gray and blue colors, with a royal crest that didn’t belong to your family. Their faces were covered—obscured by the visors of their cold metal helmets—and from their belts hung their knives, but their longswords were missing.

They must’ve given them up.

They must be from another kingdom.

_King Orelus’s men._

As you approached, your father’s men bowed and lowered their spears in the show of respect you’d become so accustomed to. Their familiar faces weren’t obscured by visors, and you could read every line in their forehead—see clearly every shift of their eyes or twitch of their brow.

The men of King Orelus did not move when you drew closer; they stayed immobile—standing as straight as arrows and as silent as statues in front of your father’s guards. You couldn’t tell if they were looking at you—if they had noticed you at all. Their heads didn’t turn; you couldn’t hear any clinks of metal armor—the sounds of movement. As far as you could tell, they stared straight ahead—at your father’s guards.

Watching them. Waiting for them to move.

Waiting for betrayal.

You grabbed for the mask—the helmet with the smiling visor and guarded eyes—and the familiar feel of it against your skin stifled the shivering of your heart. You ignored the sickening sensation pooling in your stomach and smiled.

“My father sent for me.” Your voice was light and smooth and pleasant and warm. Not like the cold stares of King Orelus’s faceless metal men. Now you heard one move—a sharp sound; a helmet brushing against a chest plate—and then you felt his glare. It was as frigid as you’d assumed—as piercing as you’d imagined.

One of your father’s guards glanced up at the sound, and you saw the man’s eyes—unguarded, unprotected eyes—fly to the space behind you. The space where the faceless statue stood. The other guard kept his head respectfully lowered and nodded, and when he did lift his eyes he made sure to keep his stare low.

He didn’t look at King Orelus’s men.

“The king waits for you inside,” said the guard who kept his gaze low. You saw his eyes flicker upward—toward where King Orelus’s men were standing—but then he quickly looked back down, as though the glance had been a mistake.

He reached for the door, and the guard who had first looked over at King Orelus’s metal men hurried to do the same. The doors were thrown open for you, and the familiar smell of sweet flowers and rich earth filled your lungs, but the scent was sourer than usual—embittered by the unwelcome presence of a stranger.

Your heart began to shake again, quivering in your chest like a wounded animal, and the knots in your stomach tightened, pulled by invisible, long-fingered hands.

You didn’t want to enter the garden.

You didn’t want to see King Orelus.

You wished you weren’t alone; you wished you had a companion—Isil, Didi, anyone.

But you didn’t. All you had was the mask.

The mask and the gods.

And you could trust the gods.

You entered the garden, and your gaze flew about it—searching for the figure of your father. Almost immediately you found him—he was standing near the willow tree, talking with three other men, and watched carefully by three more. Two were your father’s guards, and the third was King Orelus’s. For a moment you eyed the group from afar—observing them quietly from the safe shroud of invisibility ignorance granted.

The man standing closest to your father was tall and thin and familiar. You remembered that wiry shape; you recalled how easy his height had made it for him to stare down at you—to force you into an uncomfortable, unkind place.

Ambassador Nivai had returned.

A bitter taste climbed up your throat, and you swallowed it back down before it could spread onto your tongue. It was much too soon for you to greet him again. You looked to the man standing next to Nivai—a shorter man, dressed in rich furs and expensive colors. He carried a polished cane, though he didn’t seem to have much use for it. A lavish man, then, with fine tastes.

Tastes that could belong to a king.

Funny—he didn’t really fit the picture you’d drawn of King Orelus. You’d expected such a supposedly fierce and vicious man to look meaner—crueler. With fangs and horns, not jewels and furs.

But cruelty could come dressed in any assortment of colors.

Your eyes then fled to the last man, and whatever warmth there existed in your chest was chased away—conquered by a choking cold. The last man was tall—taller than your father and nearly as tall as Ambassador Nivai—with broad shoulders and a hulking build. The colors he wore were muted—duller than the short man’s and darker than Ambassador Nivai’s—but there was still a richness to it. A fineness that spoke of tailoring—of some kind of wealth.

A coldness exuded from the man—from the dull colors he wore. Like the clothes were camouflage—like he was a wolf, hiding in the colors of the sheep.

But how could someone as tall and imposing as he hope to hide among prey? He was like a mountain in an empty field—a bear in a bed of flowers.

To miss him one had to be blind.

“Oh, [Name]! There you are.” Your father had caught sight of you, and when he called your name the Ceorid men turned their heads.

Their attention—as sudden and unwelcome as it was—did not cause your polite smile any strain, and you continued grinning as you approached them. It was a soft smile—a small, deliberate curl to your lips—enough to invoke warmth, but not so much as to hint to foolishness.

Like your mother had taught you.

“My good fellows, this is my daughter—Princess [Name],” your father continued, his voice growing quieter as you approached. He had a jovial smile on his face, but as you drew nearer you could make out a tightness to his grin—a weariness and strain that had not existed in your last interaction with him.

Sympathetic guilt washed over your heart, drawing out its fearful tremblings. Stress was eating at your father—you could see its teeth in his fitful fingering of the buttons of his coat and the deep lines of his forehead and mouth.

Your father was suffering. Who were you to complain?

Once you were next to your father you turned your gaze upon the men gathered around him, though you made sure to keep it light—flickering, so that it wasn’t heavy or discomforting.

May the gods forbid these men ever feel uncomfortable in your presence.

“Well, she is quite lovely, isn’t she?” The short man was the first to speak up. He had a light voice—a wheezing voice, like he had a heavy weight on his chest. Perhaps it was from all his furs and fine trimmings. He had no beard, and his naked cheeks were pale and puffy, just like the rest of him. And he was balding—his brown hair was receding, pulling back from his forehead like some kind of scruffy animal.

He looked nothing like the Orelus you had imagined.

The short man’s eyes then fled to his companion—the man dressed in dull, muted colors, who dwarfed both the short man and you in size and height. The bearish man had dark blond hair dirtied by strands of rich brown, and his hard eyes were a harsh, dark color—almost black. A cold, severe black—like ink.

An unkind black.

Despite the coldness that lingered in his imposing companion’s eyes, the short man smiled agreeably at the blond and said, “Don’t you agree, my liege?”

Surprise almost made your eyes grow wide, but you hurried to reel the feeling in before it could show on your face. “My liege”? The short man who dripped expensive furs and glittering jewels wasn’t the king?

Who was?

Your gaze slid slowly back to the tall, imposing man. The man with dark blond hair and cold eyes, whose chin and jaw were hidden by a thick beard. Who had such a severe, unkind face, with a nose that must’ve been broken once or twice.

Fear curled around your heart, but you kept it chained to your chest—far from your eyes. For a moment you were grateful—grateful that such a cruel man as King Orelus cared little for what you had to say. You could keep the terrible hands of apprehension out of your eyes, but the terror lingered too close to your throat for you to be sure that it wouldn’t grab hold of your voice.

“She looks as well as she should.” The voice of the man with cold eyes was deep and rough—rumbling, like thunder. His words were edged, but you didn’t flinch—they bothered you little when they fell from the lips of a man who, with his hands, had wrought so much worse. The man’s dark eyes roved over your form quickly—a cursory glance, as though your appearance meant little to him. And perhaps it did—perhaps the only reason he desired a queen was to produce a legitimate heir. “No different from the others. Why did you bother our kind friend to send for her, Deddmun?”

Your eyes fled at first to the short man, who had gone a little pale in his cheeks. Fear, perhaps—terror at the thought of offending his liege. But it was not the short man King Orelus was speaking to.

“Oh, it wasn’t any bother—” your father started, an uneasy smile crawling up his face.

“I thought Your Majesty might like to see her—face to face,” Nivai replied smoothly, cutting your father short. The ambassador’s voice was clipped when he spoke—cooler than the fear that the sight of King Orelus had brought creeping back up your spine. You glanced at him—at his unkind eyes, which looked suddenly benevolent when compared to Orelus’s cruel, icy gaze. “Your Majesty wouldn’t design to marry a woman he’s never met, would he?”

A look of surprise and faint outrage flashed across the short man’s face, and when he piped up his wheezing voice was higher. “Ambassador Nivai!” the short man gasped—though perhaps it wasn’t a gasp. His breathy voice made it difficult to tell what was a simple statement and what was an exclamation. “Curb your tongue, good fellow. It’s so terribly insulting to assume to know what the great king thinks—”

“Your attempt to take offense for me is noted, Hulveddon.” No emotion lay in King Orelus’s eyes as he spoke, and his voice remained as smooth as it was deep. His gaze flickered from Nivai to the short man and then to your father, who stood off to the side, watching the entire exchange with a faltering smile and wide eyes. “Now kindly go entertain a conversation with the guards, will you? You’ll be called for again when your opinion is desired.”

King Orelus’s voice was cold—unfeeling. Cruel. Crueler than Nivai, whose vibrant, calculating eyes could still fill with some sort of life—some hint of feeling that made him less vicious and more man. When you’d first met him, Nivai had tried to divest you of your mask to see into your true person, but King Orelus, he cared little as to who you were. You weren’t him, and so you were enemy.

You weren’t him, and so you were immediately inferior.

The short man—Hulveddon—looked surprised. Surprised and embarrassed and a touch dejected—you could see it in his face. His emotions ran across it as clear as day, and for some odd, confusing reason, you felt pity for the puffy-cheeked man.

He’d dressed himself up so nicely, and now he was being sent off to chat with the guards—like a child, banished from the room when their parents had adult guests to entertain.

“O-Of course, Your Majesty.” Hulveddon bowed his head to the king, and some of the strands of his plain brown hair fell forward, across his pale brow. “I apologize if I’ve been a bother to you. Please don’t hesitate to call for me.”

He scurried off to join the small party watching from afar, and you watched him retreat. Of all the Ceorid men you had met so far, Hulveddon appeared to you the least dangerous. Perhaps it was a trick, but of what you’d seen and of what you knew from your mother and from watching the various personalities your father had had dealings with over the years, Hulveddon seemed a harmless man. A touch annoying, but only in that he was much too eager to please his superiors.

You wondered if men like him ever got tired of kissing up to those who ranked above them.

“You may send your daughter off to entertain some other fancy, King Johan.” Orelus was speaking again, his deep voice rumbling in your ears. It was a hard voice—the voice of a general. “We’ve seen her face. We haven’t any more use for her presence.”

Your father perked up at the sound of his name, and the hand that had been fiddling with his buttons dropped. “Yes—of course, King Orelus.” Your father turned to you, and he raised his arms, preparing to shoo you off as politely as he had when Ambassador Nivai had first visited. “You’re free to go now, [Name]. I thank you for heeding my call on such short notice—”

“Forgive me if I offend, but I think you’re being rather hasty, Your Majesty.” Nivai. It was always Nivai who cut your father off. You wondered if he secretly enjoyed it—interrupting others. His vibrant, calculating eyes fled from King Orelus’s face to yours, where they lingered for an uncomfortable moment before he looked at Orelus again. “The princess has more to offer than just a pretty face.”

“I-Indeed!” your father added quickly. An idea had come to him—you could see it in his eyes, the sudden bright light of purpose. “Princess [Name], my daughter, she’s—she’s quite good at languages, and instruments! Oh, she can play the harpsichord so very well.” Suddenly, you felt like livestock—like a good, and your father the merchant, attempting to sell you off. No longer were you the painting on the wall, being admired and talked about as though you didn’t exist—now your owner was attempting to auction you off, sell you to the highest or lowest bidder. Anyone who would take you off his hands. “And dance—she’s very good at dancing, too. Blessed, the augurs used to say. She used to dance holes in her shoes, you know. Not that she was a disobedient child—oh, no, quite the opposite, in fact! She was always quite well-behaved. Quite well-behaved. A perfect child, really.”

Your father spoke quickly—eagerly. But the words that fell from his smiling lips left a sour, bitter taste in your mouth. Was he really so desperate to be rid of you?

No—no, he was stressed. You saw it—in his face. The strain was getting to him. He loved you, and wasn’t this but a perfect show of his love? Dressing up his daughter as the prize of his stock.

You wondered if he’d done the same when he’d married off Idryla.

Despite your father’s attempts, King Orelus’s eyes were still cold—empty. Unaffected and unimpressed. “I don’t mean to insult you, King Johan, but I’m afraid I don’t understand the importance of such frivolous talents.” King Orelus blinked slowly, his dark, cruel eyes fixing themselves upon your father’s face. “When I need to communicate with rulers who speak another tongue, I send an ambassador. I don’t care much for music, but if I did I’d hire a musician. And I don’t dance often, so I have little use for a partner who does.”

An ounce of blood drained from your father’s face with every word that left King Orelus’s lips, and the light that had burned so brightly in his eyes sputtered and died. “Y-Yes, but…but…”

And Orelus didn’t blink.

“She has quite the wit about her,” Nivai chimed in. Again. His observant eyes were fixed on King Orelus, but still, you stared at him. It confused you, his sudden determination to paint you in a kind light. He’d been so quick to pass judgment on you when you first met him—why now did he try to so hard to get his king to favor you? “And isn’t that quite the necessity for a queen, Your Majesty? Not just so that you might entertain engaging with her in intellectual pursuits as a friend, but also so that she doesn’t act foolishly and cast your mighty kingdom to ruins?”

Nivai paused, but kept his cool, calculating gaze locked with King Orelus’s. “There have been queens before who’ve ruined such mighty kings as Your Majesty—emperors, too.”

King Orelus met Nivai’s stare without flinching, and at first, his dark eyes remained blank—empty—but then you saw a flickering in his eyes. For the first time since he’d appraised you upon your entry into the garden, King Orelus’s gaze met yours.

“If the princess is so witty—as my dear ambassador claims—why has she been so quiet all this time?” He stared at you—eyeing you almost like his guards had eyed your father’s men. Waiting. Watching. “Has a cat got her tongue?”

Your mother told you never to speak in the presence of King Orelus unless spoken to, and only then if it was King Orelus himself who was talking to you. She said to keep your answers sweet and polite and to sound smart, but not too smart. Ignorant, but not so much that it made you out as a blundering fool.

You opened your mouth—parted your lips, still curled into that disarming half smile. “No—she left it outside, with the guards.” Your voice was even and smooth. No hint of fear lingered in it—no sense of hurt or surprise. Just a simple smoothness—a pleasantness that made it almost warm. “She’s never had use for it around such men as you, Your Majesty.”

Something flashed across Orelus’s face—something that looked almost like surprise. Or realization. For a short moment, he simply stared at you, his dark, cruel eyes widening just slightly. Perhaps it was your words that had gotten him off guard, or the tone of your voice. Perhaps he hadn’t imagined that it would sound so pleasant—so silky.

Perhaps he hadn’t thought a princess could be the owner of such a silvery tongue.

And then a small, flickering light came to his dark eyes, and you saw the look on his face shift—change into some new expression as his lips lifted, curling into something that looked almost like a smile. A wolfish grin, with teeth that weren’t fanged but which appeared as sharp as knives.

“And why’s that, I wonder?” King Orelus drew closer to you as if to make you even more aware of his height—of how he towered over you. The light in his eyes grew a touch brighter—a touch keener. It looked almost like recognition, or contentment—like a promise finally fulfilled. “Why would she be so unkind as to deprive us of the delight of such a lovely voice?”

You swallowed and tried to fight the urge to draw away. You were discomforted by King Orelus’s movements—of how close to you he had made himself. Closer than before, but not so near that it was impolite. And yet, to ask him to step back would be. You fixed the mask tighter on your face. “Habit, likely.”

“A nasty habit.” You could see King Orelus’s sharp teeth, glittering underneath the hairs of his dark beard. You wished you couldn’t; you wished he was so far away from you that you couldn’t decipher whether or not he had a beard. “Perhaps she could learn to break it?”

You were shaking your head before the king had finished the thought. “Oh, no. No—goodness no. That would be awfully unwise, Your Majesty.”

“Would it be?” King Orelus simpered. You wanted to look away from him, but you feared breaking eye contact. You feared glanced away from his face for even the slightest of moments.

You regretted opening your mouth.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” A breathy voice broke in—Hulveddon, barging back into the conversation unwelcomed.

The light that had been flickering in King Orelus eyes was quickly snuffed, and the something that might’ve been a smile disappeared—washed away by the sound of Hulveddon’s voice. King Orelus drew away from you, and the weight that had been pressing down on your chest was lifted.

You breathed.

“I’m so terribly sorry to interrupt you, Your Majesty,” Hulveddon approached King Orelus quickly, and you saw an urgency in his eyes—burning as bright as the fear in your chest, “but I left briefly to check the time, and—well, it’s getting rather late! If Your Majesty wishes to make it to the Hosha Empire before the new moon, we must be going!” Hulveddon’s wheezing voice seemed to grow even more breathy while he spoke, as though talking took a tremendous amount of energy out of him. “Your Majesty knows how difficult the journey can be in the spring.”

King Orelus fixed his dark gaze upon Hulveddon, who shivered when he met the man’s cold, unfeeling eyes. And then, to your surprise, the king sighed. “Of course. The gods do love to tease their pets, don’t they?” King Orelus’s eyes fled to your father, and he stared at the man without smiling. “Unfortunately—though I do so wish that I could stay—one of my ambassadors promised Emperor Wuem a meeting, and I am duty-bound to honor it. But this talk is far from over.” King Orelus spared Nivai a glance, and a thought came to him. “In my place, I will leave you with Ambassador Nivai. He will take care of finalizing part of the agreement in my stead.”

The king of Ceorid looked back at your father, and the wolfish smile came creeping back, darkening his pale face. “I hope I am not wrong to dream of an age of peace and prosperity between our kingdoms, King Johan.” The light flickered back to life, burning in his cold, dark eyes. Realization, so cruel and content. “And if you doubt my word, question one of your brilliant augurs—I’m sure they will be glad to divulge the future they see.” Orelus’s eyes shifted, and his gaze met yours briefly. It was so vicious, the light in his eyes. Terrifyingly vicious. “I look forward to finishing up this lovely conversation of ours at a later time, dear princess.”

And then the imposing king of Ceorid turned away from you. You watched him join with the guard he had left with your father's men, and your eyes followed him as he exited the garden—Hulveddon scampering after him like some pet.

The fear in your chest did not diminish as King Orelus moved away—no, in fact, it grew heavier. Thicker. Until it had grown fingers firm enough to choke you.


	9. CHAPTER EIGHT

**warning:** descriptions of violence/gore (imagined)

* * *

** viii. the knight and the suitor **

**heretic**  
// hate is the constant—the comfortable resting state, humming just under the skin. hate is the starting place; hate is the eternal mind. it is immortal. continuous. endless. it will never die.

* * *

**_Isil had left the castle_. **He’d taken his riding horse and slipped out through one of the back gates—one of the old, conspicuous exits he and Adalleth and sometimes Princess [Name] used to busy themselves with finding. Back in former times, when there was freedom in the pause—in the empty times between lessons and duties.

Back when dreams were natural and nightmares explainable—when eyes saw only fact in waking hours and young, naked hands could hold and be held without fear of corruption. When he was blind and ignorance was his shield and armor—before he saw. Before they pried open his eyes and made him see—made him stare into the cruel, smiling jaws of truth. Of knowing. Of being aware of what he wished was still unknown.

But the gods didn’t care if the truth harmed; the gods didn’t care if fact kept him awake at night, or if it twisted his stomach into knots and made him tremble at the sight of his father’s sword.

They didn’t care if they caused their believers to suffer—if they were the source of their disciples’ anguish.

The gods didn’t have to fear retribution or punishment. They were the ones who chastised—who doled out harsh penalties and firm justice. They were in the right; they were correct and fair. They were truth and good and their believers were not. Their believers were wrong; their believers were unfair and false.

Always false. Always wrong.

Even when the gods were the ones at fault.

Twigs and decaying foliage crunched under the soles of Isil’s boots—all the dead, forgotten things that had been buried beneath verdant shoots of spring. All the things that had yet to be decomposed—yet to be devoured by the forces of decay.

The sweet, syrupy scent of blossoms and new life drowned out the smell of rot, pressing down on it until it became but an unpleasant undertone—a simple memory of distasteful things. The smell—sweet and sickly—filled Isil’s lungs. It was in his mouth, bathing his tongue and chasing away the hot, burning taste of anger.

The rage fled to his throat, where it settled like heavy stones in the back of his mouth, pressing against the base of his tongue, waiting for the taste of new life to subside. Rage and anger and hatred, for the gods—for all they allowed and all the promises they failed to keep. For their threats—for their selfish, hypocritical decrees.

Hate. It was all he could do. All he could feel for them was hate, and all he could do was feel it. All he could do was despise them and curse them and scream heresies in their places of worship. Renounce them and turn away from them and hate them for what they really were. But none of that would change them—none of that would stop them from manipulating their worshipers.

Hate wouldn’t bring justice—not to the gods.

And knowing that made him hate them all the more.

He was near the front path now—the one that led to the castle’s entrance. The reigns to his riding horse were in his hands; he’d dismounted from the beast when he’d reached the woods, and now he stood just at the edge of the tree line, looking up at a castle more familiar to him than the house in which he was born.

He stared up at the stone walls and the parapets where the guards walked and the towers that rose high, high above his head—so high that when he was young he could swear they pierced the sky, and when rain fell he used to think it was because the towers had torn a hole in the fabric of the clouds. But such thoughts were ridiculous—foolish and unreasonable, like honoring one man for the glory that belonged to a hundred.

He stared—stared and stared and stared, and as he stared he thought. He thought of Adalleth, of all the games they’d played in the halls of that imposing castle. Of all the chores they’d completed—all the responsibilities they’d tried and failed to shirk.

All the reprimands they’d received; all the fun they’d had. Because Adalleth had always had a way about him—a positivity that seemed to turn even the grayest, most horrific of moments into a time of delight and joy. It was something about his voice—about the way his eyes always seemed to smile. Even when the future was bleak; even when the present was barren and hopeless.

And it was—so hopeless. So gray and hideous and empty. Like the eyes of a corpse, staring at nothing. Reflecting a sky it couldn’t see.

Something pressed against the backs of Isil’s eyes—an emotion, richer than his anger and stronger than his enmity. It wrapped its fingers around his throat—brought a heavy, burning taste to his tongue. It made the picture of the castle sitting atop the hill merge with the sky and the field around it; it made all the colors pool together into one blurred, ugly hue. It climbed up his throat, and like a heavy, towering wave it crashed against him.

Isil’s legs buckled out from under him and he fell, his knees digging into the fresh, rich dirt. The colors in his eyes were bright and ugly, and he brought his hands—his terrible, terrible hands—to his face to block out the disgusting hues. To wipe away the feeling that poured out from his eyes. That was choking him—suffocating him.

The knight of Tys didn’t cry. The hero of the Alaimore kingdom shed no tears. He was not man. He was not human. He was a champion—the servant of the king and the divine. There was no room in his life—in his _destiny_—for emotion. For fickle attachments and terrible love.

But he was not the gods’ champion. Not anymore. He hated them. He despised them and all they stood for. The only man he bowed to was his king—the only woman he desired to serve was his princess.

He would die for her—only her. She was his princess—his goddess. She was his ruler and his deity and the only higher power he praised and prayed to.

And for her, he would be a champion. For her, he would’ve killed anyone. He would’ve executed the innocent and the guilty and he would’ve done it without batting an eye—without flinching or wondering the morality of his actions. He would’ve abandoned all emotions—whatever empathy and humanity there still existed in the cold shell of his body—if she’d asked him to.

And it was for her he cried. It was for their friend—their wonderful, cheerful friend—that he sobbed. Adalleth. Adalleth, lover of the princess, surrogate brother of the heretic—of the loathsome traitor who’d turned his back on the gods. Who’d betrayed them and scorned them and openly despised them.

The traitor should’ve died that day; the traitor, for all his sins and crimes, should’ve been the one gutted by the tyrant king’s sword. He deserved it. It would’ve been just—so wonderfully, terribly just.

But he hadn’t died. He had survived. And what did he have to show for living? For surviving when Adalleth hadn’t? He’d promised to keep Adalleth alive, and he’d failed. He’d sworn to protect the princess, and he’d failed at that, too.

He was worse than a traitor—he was a failure. A failure and a heretic and a pitiful, sad man crying because he had lost. Crying because he had run—from his home, from the only person who still pitied him enough to care for him.

_Why_ had he run? Why had he run from her—from the shrine? The incense—he could still taste it, in the back of his mouth. As suffocating as despair—as sweet as the newborn blossoms, now crushed under the weight of his body.

He hated the incense. He hated the way it smelled—the way it filled up the space of the shrine, making everything smaller. Tighter. He hated the statue of Mitemis—how human it looked. How emphatic it made the goddess appear. Like she’d cared—like she’d had any feelings whatsoever regarding the life in her hands.

Isil doubted that she had. Isil _knew_ that she hadn’t. Gods were too selfish to care for mortal life—to care for anything ephemeral.

Transient beings were the gods’ tools and toys; they had little use besides.

But they didn’t know that—his princess and that caretaker were as oblivious as children when it came to the gods’ true feelings toward mankind. They thought the gods cared. They thought the gods wanted the best for mankind.

How could they think that? How could they expect empathy from beings that had had no qualm imprisoning one of their own thousands of leagues beneath the sea? That had turned a blind eye to the suffering of hundreds of mortal people at the hands of King Orelus?

No—the gods cared little whether or not his princess suffered. And still, she trusted them—still she placed all her misguided faith in them.

And Isil hated that, too. Isil hated how trusting she was of them—how cruel they were, to lead her on. To make her think they cared. If Isil could he would grab them—wrap his fingers in their hair and throw them to the ground. Make them understand; make them know how it felt to be the one at the bottom, looking up into cruel, unfeeling eyes and hoping—hoping beyond all belief—that those eyes would somehow become warm and amiable and emphatic.

But they wouldn’t. Not even for her, who deserved only to be regarded warmly. Who deserved happiness.

And Isil wished he could give such to her.

Adalleth could’ve.

Adalleth _had_.

But now the memory of him made her cold. Made her pull away; made her put on that smile he hated. The one that was fake but looked so real—so forced and still so genuine. The smile she gave her mother. The smile she gave to strangers, like it was an offering and they were gods.

Isil wished she wouldn’t smile—not if it were fake. Not if there was no real feeling behind it. He wished she never needed to fake a smile. He wished she smiled all the time, and that all the time she smiled it was honest and genuine.

Because she was beautiful when she smiled. She was pretty when she didn’t smile, but when she did was radiant—divine.

She was everything the gods wished they could be—pretended to be.

Isil wondered if the gods knew that—if they knew that there lived in this world a woman a thousand times more holy than them. More perfect and sacred than them in every way possible. If they knew were they jealous? Were they hateful? Did they wish to destroy her? To take from humanity its one chance at redemption—its one hope for a better, fuller future?

If they did then they would. Selfish beings always acted hatefully.

Isil would know.

He was as selfish as they came.

The sound of hooves—many, many hooves—wound its way down from the hill. From the place where the castle sat, overlooking its precious land. The sound startled him, and he opened the eyes he hadn’t known he’d shut.

The feeling that had poured from them had weakened—it receded back into his chest and dried on his cheeks, and he wiped away what he could with the back of his gloved hands. The ugly, terrible colors that had blinded him had vanished, and now he could see once more the castle and the sky and the fields—all independent of one another; all sure and firm in their existence.

Separate of one another.

No bleeding colors—no merging shapes. Turning many into one, terrible shape. A shape that chained—that bore down on his throat and tried to drown him.

A shape with ugly, glaring fangs.

Isil’s gaze fled to the road that led up to the castle’s main gate, and there he saw a procession—a line of horses and men wearing foreign colors. Familiar colors.

Ugly colors.

Recognition picked Isil up by the shoulders, and he scrambled to get to his feet, horror and bitter hatred clawing their way up his spine. He knew those colors. He knew what they looked like when they were torn and soaked in bright, arterial blood.

The colors of the enemy.

The colors of Orelus.

Isil’s eyes followed the procession as they advanced down the path, away from the castle. His gaze caught on the shape of a carriage—one of two, both heralding the presence of some important character. A lord? An ambassador?

A king?

Isil narrowed his eyes, and the hatred that had climbed up his spine settled in the space between his shoulder blades, nestling up to a cold, venomous disbelief. That couldn’t be King Orelus’s carriage. It was impossible. They were early—too early. Two days too early.

And it was springtime—rivers and roads flooded in the springtime. Visitors from Ceorid were only ever late in the springtime.

Never early.

_Never_ early.

But—

No. No, it wasn’t possible.

But—

_No_. It _couldn’t_ be King Orelus. His princess had two more days; the gods owed her two more days.

But when had the gods cared to make good on their debts?

Isil’s fingers curled into tight, seething fists, and he glared at the shapes of the Ceorid men, advancing calmly down the path—bearing their ugly, hateful colors for all the world to see. How could they look so peaceful—so at ease—when a monster sat on their throne? How could they bow to him—take orders from such a despicable creature?

Perhaps they were as immoral as the man they called king—perhaps they were all mortal gods, selfish and cruel, hoping only to survive to the next day.

Incapable of empathizing with any creature that existed outside of themselves.

Isil’s gaze fixed itself upon the most ornate of the carriages. The one that all but screamed that it was host to a king—to a man who must’ve thought himself as great as the sun.

Isil glared at the gaudy thing, and the anger—the comfortable, well-worn anger—started to rise again. It started to press up against his skin, bubbling and boiling and as red as the blood that covered his hands. His fingers drifted to the sword hanging from his hip, and the pads of his gloves ghosted over the familiar hilt.

His riding horse hadn’t wandered too far off, and the path to the main gate of the castle wound close to the edge of the woods. If he was quick he could be on his horse in under a minute, and if he was even faster he could be there, at the edge of the path waiting for them in under the same amount of time. He could kill the three nearest the carriage and severely wound the fourth in three minutes—throw open the door to the carriage and pull out the king in two. Fend off the two who’d try to come to the king’s aid and then dismount from his own horse in another three.

And then, to kill the king, he’d take three more. Because he wouldn’t just kill him—no—he’d mutilate him. He’d gut Orelus like the king had gutted Adalleth—like a fish, like the animal he was. He’d gut him and then he’d cut off his hands and then he’d go for his face. First, he’d gouge out his eyes—his cruel, empty eyes. The eyes that had looked at Adalleth and had filled with such a horrific light—a disgusting brightness once they’d seen the light fade from his friend’s eyes.

And after the king’s eyes were gone—torn and mutilated by Isil’s sword—he would shove the blade into the man’s mouth, force it down his throat until the cross-guard brushed against his teeth. And then, while he choked on cold metal and his own blood, Isil would lean down—down, until his face was just beside the king’s—and he would whisper in a low, even voice, “This is what justice tastes like, Your Majesty. _This_ is what it feels like to die.”

And then he would lean back, so he could watch the light fade from the mangled, gaping holes that used to be eyes. And he would stare into them until an arrow from a crossbow or a blade from another guard’s sword pierced his chest in the fourth minute.

And then—if he hung on long enough—in a fifth, he would die.

In his last moment, he would think of his king and family, but his mind would linger on memories of Adalleth and his princess. And those of Adalleth would be joyful because he would know he would be seeing him again. He would think of only the happiest of the many memories he shared with Adalleth, but then when he thought of [Name]…

Of how alone she would be without him…

But happy! She would be happy. She would have to be happy, eventually. Because Orelus would be gone; she would be free. Free to be arranged to marry a duke or another king.

Or a champion.

And she would thank him—thank him for sacrificing himself. Thank him for finally finding some use for his life. Because he’d failed her so totally in all his other attempts.

Because he couldn’t protect her.

But now he had. Now he’d saved her and she could be happy.

Without him.

And he’d never get to see another of her smiles, or hear her laughter. Or see her eyes—see them fill with bright, wonderful light. Hopeful light. Because of him. Without him.

In spite of him.

His eyes followed the procession of men and horses and carriages, and his fingers curled around the grip of his sword. If he moved now he could still do it. If he moved in another three minutes he could do it.

A minute passed. Then two—then three and four and five.

The procession drew closer to the space where Isil would’ve ambushed them from and then passed it.

And he watched them. His eyes followed them as they passed, but his body didn’t move. All he could see was [Name], smiling without him. Happy without him.

Crying because of him. Like she’d cried three years ago—like she’d cried four weeks ago.

He should’ve broken his promise; he should’ve gone straight to the king and asked for her hand in marriage. Even though he’d said he wouldn’t; even though he’d promised.

If the gods could break their promises, why couldn’t he?

Maybe then he wouldn’t be standing at the edge of the woods, watching his one chance to rectify all his mistakes—all his awful shortcomings—vanish down the road.

But he was a failure. And a traitor. And a pitiful, sad man who couldn’t even gather the courage to avenge his beloved friend.

And now he was a coward, too.


	10. CHAPTER NINE

** ix. the ambassador **

**witness**  
// silk drips from his thin arms, and memories hang underneath his unkind eyes. at night, his mind walks, and the ghosts of the shadows in his room open their dark, bottomless mouths to devour him.

* * *

**_King Johan III was a polite, hospitable host_. **That much Nivai would give him—would ever stoop to offer a man so foolishly trusting.

So destructively trusting. Like a child. A boy who'd never been wronged. Who didn't know the danger of the unknown; who'd never been warned of the insidious desires of strangers—of men like Nivai.

Of men whom Nivai had known.

Men and women—strange and familiar. Different in so many ways and yet alike in aspects just as numerous. How easily they had torn apart his kingdom; how readily they had abused the trust of their great, righteous king.

But Nivai was younger than King Johan III. What more could he know of the world? What more could his eyes have seen? What thoughts festered in his mind—haunted _his_ waking hours, but not the king of Alaimore's?

But he didn't want to think of them—to be reminded of memories that had already stolen so much of the night from him. He didn't want to remember the time before King Orelus.

The chaos. The violence.

The blood.

_It was hers_.

Nivai closed his eyes—screwed them shut as tightly as he could. But that was wrong, and now he could see her. Her face—her eyes. She lived behind his eyelids—curled up in the back of his head, sleeping. Lying dormant in the shadows of his thoughts. Waiting. For the night to fall—for him to close his eyes so she could live again.

So she could_ breathe_—

Idiot.

He forgot.

Idiot—_idiot_.

_He forgot_.

He opened his eyes—forced them as wide as they would go. But she was still there, swallowing his vision like the darkness of slumber—devouring his other thoughts. Like a sickness. Like a parasite. Living in him—off of him. Breathing the air in his lungs—warming herself with blood from his heart.

_Everywhere—_everywhere_. Oh gods, oh gods he could _smell_ it—_

He grabbed for something—something hard; something _real_. So he could remember—so he could see something else besides _her_.

The palms of his hands pressed against something firm, and his shoulder fell against a surface just as hard. He clung to the solidity—to the reminder of a world outside of her—and then he started grabbing at his thoughts, jerking them away from her—tearing them out of her tight grip. They weren't hers anymore; they _couldn't_ be hers anymore.

Where was he? He had to remember—he knew but he just needed to _remember_.

Remember that she wasn't there.

He knew where he was—he knew he knew _he knew_.

The castle—he was in a castle. He was in a castle, but it wasn't their king's—_his_ king's. It belonged to another man. Another king. Who was he? He'd offered Nivai a tour on his first visit, but Nivai had declined because—

His first visit! And so this was his second. But why had he come—why had he been sent here? Why had he returned?

_For the king._

Which one?

_Mine. My king._

Orelus. King Orelus of Ceorid. The Great King.

_Great. Great, they call him. How can a man be great?_

The great uniter—the man who had taken the broken, tattered remnants of the Ceorid Kingdom and restored it to its former glory. Rebuilt it in his mighty image. The man who had saved Nivai's kingdom—who had defeated the old king's greedy sons.

The hero of Ceorid.

Nivai had been sent by him to the western nations to find—to procure for him—

_Her. Her eyes. She couldn't see—she couldn't see that she was—_

A queen. A peace treaty. A marriage contract. And he'd found one in Alaimore.

Alaimore. He was in Alaimore now. In a hallway in the castle of Alaimore. A visitor—an ambassador. The first, tentative step toward peace between nations at war.

He was an ambassador—a noble man of noble breeding—and when he closed his eyes the only sight that would greet him would be darkness. Empty, peaceful darkness. Not a face—not another pair of wide, unseeing eyes. There was nothing in his head but him. Nivai. Ambassador Nivai of Ceorid.

He was the only one breathing the air in his lungs. He was the only one warmed by the blood rushing through his veins.

And he was in a hallway in the castle that belonged to King Johan III, the king of Alaimore. And the king of Alaimore was a naïve but hospitable man. And the king of Alaimore had a daughter that the great King Orelus was likely to marry. King Orelus had all but outright said as much by requesting that Nivai work out the more base details of the peace treaty with King Johan III.

Nivai breathed in slowly through his nose, and when he exhaled the air that filled his soft lungs poured languidly from his mouth. His vision was blurry, but when he blinked all that surrounded him rushed into sharp focus.

He was leaning against a wall, and the palms of his hands were pressed firmly against the smooth stone. He took another breath and then pushed himself off the wall—made himself stand on his own two feet, as he always should. His hands began to shake without the firmness of stone to keep them still—to press up against them and force them to quiet their trembling. So he curled his fingers into fists—curled them so tightly that his knuckles turned a ghostly, sickly white—until he felt his nails dig into the skin of his palm.

He was real. _This_ was real—this was truth.

And she wasn't.

Not anymore.

He uncurled his hands from their fists and looked down at himself. His clothes were askew—crumpled by his leaning against the castle wall—and he moved to right the disorganization. To make himself proper and noble again.

And then he looked around himself—at the hallway he stood in—to see if someone watched him. To make sure that no possible spy or enemy had seen an ambassador from Ceorid forget himself. Forget truth and certainty—if only for a second.

But a second at all was a second too much.

There was no one, but as Nivai stared he saw a guard appear from around a nearby corner and advance quietly past him. The guard walked without saying anything to Nivai; all he offered the foreign ambassador was a short nod of the head before he disappeared down the hall.

A sigh of relief fell from Nivai's lips, and he took in an even deeper, calmer breath. It was foolish of him, to lose himself so in such unfamiliar and potentially hostile territory. He needed to get a better grip of himself—of his damned mind.

He brought his chin up and straightened his spine, and then he moved forward.

Where was he headed again?

To his room—to the guest room King Johan III had offered him. Where he would be alone.

Because King Johan III was too trusting of strangers.

As Nivai walked, he kept a close eye on his surroundings—noting the details of his path and putting them against the particulars he'd noted on his first trip to the guest room the king had given him. A servant had guided him then—to his room and then briefly to the king's library when he'd asked—but this time he would be returning alone.

He wished he didn't have to stay the night in Alaimore. He wished he and King Johan III had finished working through the outline of the treaty today, and that he didn't have to sit down with the man again tomorrow.

A frown pulled at Nivai's lips, and the bitterness in his chest reared its ugly head. Bitterness. Unhappiness. With his king. With his nation.

With a king who was too trusting for his own good.

Nivai's eyes fled to the floor, and he glared at it for a short, sharp moment. There was no more trembling in his hands—no more shadows in his eyes—and now his chest was full of bitterness and a cold callousness. Emptiness.

Indifference.

It was better than being lost.

Nivai looked up from the floor, and his narrowed gaze met another's—the princess's. The princess of Alaimore—the woman his king would marry.

Princess [Name].

_It was a jest—a detour. I didn't wish for him to favor you._

She smiled at him when their eyes met, but Nivai doubted the integrity of her grin. He doubted many things—it was what kept him alive.

"Good afternoon." The princess sounded polite when she greeted him, but he hardly noticed her tone. His thoughts—always so sharp and determined—had weakened the moment she'd opened her mouth. The moment she had chosen to part her lips and speak. And now her voice was in his head, softening his mind—warming the cold indifference in his chest.

He hadn't realized it was evening—but no, he had. He had to have. His meeting with King Johan III had been cut short because the sun had begun to set. He'd just forgotten.

"It looks to be more evening, now," he replied. He spoke sharper than necessary—sharper than he did with peers; sharper than he should be with the woman who would be his queen. He blamed her—the softness her voice caused; the fuzziness in his head and chest. He had to make up for it in his own words; his voice had to be sharp if hers was going to be so rounded.

The princess didn't flinch at his tone—she'd yet to ever flinch because of him. Because of what he'd said or his tone when speaking.

He wasn't sure if that should surprise him—should upset him or amuse him. King Orelus was the only man he knew who did not wince at the sharpness of his voice.

He was the only man Nivai didn't speak sharply to.

"Well, the evening does fall after noon, doesn't it, Ambassador Nivai?" Now there was something like a sharpness to the princess of Alaimore's voice, but still, she continued to smile pleasantly at him. No wincing. No flinching. No hint that his words had affected her.

But her voice was still warm. Her voice was still in his head, disrupting his thoughts—dulling his mind. It made her eyes look brighter—kinder. And her face—he wanted to explore it. Closer. With his eyes; with his fingers. Reach out a hand—touch her cheek.

Would her skin feel like Lorvenne's?

"That it does." The sharpness in his voice dulled, and he tried to force it back—to quickly hone his words until they were like knives. He narrowed his eyes—tried to glare past the brightness of her face. "But night too falls after noon, and I do not suppose you tell others 'good afternoon' before you retire for the night." He stared down at her—looked down at her in a manner he knew was most impolite. But perhaps it would remind him—force him to recall the world again. "Unless you do."

Her lips twitched—that fake, pleasant smile of hers wavered. Like when he'd first met her—like the first time he'd heard her voice. It was the closest so far that she'd come to wincing—to having that noble exterior of hers crumble. He didn't know if he wanted it to; it was a fine front. Strong—promising. Worthy of a queen.

And soon, she would be. His—his queen. Soon he would bow to her. Soon he would give his great, terrible king the means to secure his rule—to secure his claim on the throne.

He was the cause and the insurer. He was the hand and the thought making it move.

That was his truth—that was his reality.

The cold made it easier to accept. The indifference and bitterness made it easier to ignore.

Easier to survive.

"May I inquire as to where you are headed?" She'd changed the topic. She must've realized the futility of their short argument—how easily it could've escalated. At least she was collected enough to be wary of conversation with men like him.

It was more than he could say for her father.

He stared at her and tried to make his thoughts sharp again. He'd always been so adept at reading people—at knowing what they would say to him before they even opened their mouths. But the warmth had dulled his mind, and the heart that sat in his cold chest—the heart filled with hot, thick blood—stood up in its seat and started pulling at his head. Like a hand telling the thought how to move.

"I'm retiring for the evening," he said. His voice was still firm—still attempting as well as it could to remain edged. He didn't like it—not being able to keep control of his own tone; his own words and thoughts.

But he couldn't fend the princess off—he couldn't chase her away.

She wasn't a shadow—she was real. Real blood and flesh. And warm—her skin was warm. Like her voice. And if he touched her lips they would be warm, too. Smiling lips. Smiling without cause—without genuine meaning. Like her father.

Smiling at a man who wanted no more than to see her frown—who wanted to see her lips pucker and pout and pull themselves into any manner of expression. Anything but a smile.

_It was foolish of me, to send the king word of you. Your kingdom is inconsequential—your sacrifice unnecessary._

If he was King Orelus, perhaps he would have leaned forward, grabbed her chin with his fingers and discovered whether or not her skin felt the same to him as Lorvenne's, and forced the smile off her lovely face—forced her lips to conform to the shape of his.

He wanted the reality of her—the substance of her body to ground him in a world he strayed further and further from every night. Something to remind him of who he was. Something to help him forget who he had been.

But he wasn't the great King Orelus. He was Nivai. Nivai the ambassador. Nivai the quick-witted.

Nivai the wary, who trusted no man nor woman—who clung as desperately to his fading world as a man clutched the edge of a cliff he dangled from.

And she was a princess—_the_ princess. The woman he was helping to make into a wife. And if he touched her she would suffer. And if he touched her she would scream. She was too bright not too—too cautious not to suspect danger in his presence.

And she was right to be suspicious—right to keep distance between herself and him.

"Oh—really?" Surprise colored the princess's words, and polite dismay quickly soured her smile, but Nivai had been watching her—had been trying as well as he could to sharpen his thoughts—and he'd seen her eyes brighten. Seen the short, fleeting look of relieved delight cross her pleasant, regal face before disappearing. It had happened so quickly; if Nivai hadn't been looking for it—been expecting to find something flash across her face in the seconds between hearing and knowing—he would've missed it. As it were he nearly had—missed his first glimpse at the mysterious mind hiding behind her young eyes. "May I assume, then, that you won't be joining us for supper?"

He'd expected her to ask him why—to demand a reason as to why he wouldn't be having supper with the king and queen of Alaimore. It would've been polite of her.

King Orelus would like for him to have dinner with her father and mother. It would be an opportunity—a chance to observe the future rulers of Alaimore before they took the throne. Before they bore the full weight of a nation on their shoulders.

But night was inching closer—too close. And he could feel her again, padding lightly up the back of his spine, stronger, now that he'd already tried to fend her off. She was always stubborn—she was always victorious.

_But she didn't always smell of blood._

"You may assume whatever you like." His voice was cold—cold and aloof if it couldn't be sharp. But his chest was still warm, and the thoughts in his head still distorted. He wanted to feel her and be felt by her—by anyone. To press against someone else—be part of someone else again. Remember what it felt like to be real. To be on and in and part of something. To feel solid again. To feel something again. "All I know is that I will be dining in my room. Alone."

He started to walk away—to turn his head and let the sound of her sweet, silky voice become another shadowy memory. But then a thought came to him, and the warmth in his head and chest converged into one and settled in his mouth.

"Have a pleasant afternoon, Princess."


	11. HER MUSE

_( just a mother's day special. does not aline chronologically with the current storyline. feel free to skip.)_

* * *

** i. the mother **

**weaver**  
// tired are her fingertips. exhausted is her mind. she labored first for father and mother, second for king and kingdom. now she endeavors for the children—for the future she desires them to know.

* * *

**_The evening light streaming in through the leaded_ **glass windows was golden colored. Warm. Like the sun from which it came. It spilled into the queen of Alaimore’s sitting room like water flooding an empty glass—seeking out the point closest to the earth; leaving neither crack nor crevice unfilled.

It fell like squares of fabric across the queen’s still hands—shedding light upon the loom and the unfinished weave sitting placidly therein. Reminding her that her hands were wrong to be still—her mind treacherous to be so blank.

A frown pulled at the queen’s lips, and she raised her hands—reached for the heddle stick she had so thoughtlessly abandoned—and then—

And then—

And then—nothing.

Nothing.

Her mind was blank; Queen Mirabell of Alaimore’s careful, brilliant mind was empty. Silent. Like the light spilling through the glass; like the loom in front of her—filled with a few meaningless, colorful strands of wool.

Wool. Not silk, as she would have liked. As she had requested. Johan had said that it was too expensive—they couldn’t afford to purchase silk for the tapestry, not with the war.

The war. She’d warned him—she’d tried to tell him how unwise a decision it was, upholding his father’s poor foreign policies. But he was adamant—dutiful. He was a good, faithful son, and a good son remained true to his father’s judgment.

A good son did as his father told him, never mind what his wife had to say.

Never mind tradition. It was but a promise to a predecessor—a man or woman neither he nor she would ever meet or know—and promises to the past were foolish to uphold.

Like needing silk to make a tapestry. How nonsensical of her, to be so adamant for such a fabric. It was only a tapestry.

A tapestry that should become the heart of their daughter’s home. That should be placed above her bed or the beds of her children. That should delineate a warm, familiar space for her.

That should remind her of her home; that should make her new residence into one. A warm home. A comforting home.

But yes, it was only a tapestry, Johan. Yes, wool was just as good, Johan.

Yes, the war was dragging on for far longer than one would have thought, Johan.

The queen closed her eyes—gave her head a soft, slight shake. There was a knife settling in her chest, and she hurried to dislodge it before it could sink itself any deeper into the flesh of her heart. It was best not to mind things that couldn’t be changed—that contained no hope of ever becoming different.

Or better.

Besides, she was glad to have Johan. Glad to be a wife—to have all her mother wished for her and more. He was a good man, Johan. A good son and a good man. He knew how to make her smile; he knew how to please her—how to make her severe, somber eyes crinkle at the corners from a warm smile.

He knew how to soften her stony heart—knew that there was still a heart in her chest to soften—and even when he told her she couldn’t use silk to make the tapestry—even when his stubborn resilience sparked a hot, furious fire in her chest—even then she couldn’t muster the bitterness to dislike him. He was too soft to dislike—too sweet to ever fathom hating.

And she couldn't have wished for anyone better to marry—to have children with.

Her mother certainly hadn’t.

The queen raised her hands again—opened her tired eyes and focused them once more on the loom. She didn’t need silk to make a tapestry. She could make one just as lovely with cheap, colorful wool.

But only if she knew what designs to form—what colors to weave. Only if her mind could think upon the spools of richly dyed wool and pick from them those that would make the most brilliant and worthy of patterns. Worthy of being hung in her child’s house.

The sunlight shone so brightly upon the strands of colorful wool hanging on the loom. It mocked her—the noble Queen Mirabell. The queen who could not weave a tapestry for her second daughter—who looked upon the strands of wool and stared. Stared without knowing—without lifting her hands to take the strands and form them into designs fabricated by her mind. A queen whose eyes were blank and mind empty; who looked upon a tapestry fraying—unwinding before it ever became whole.

Why was her mind so blank—so horribly empty? It shouldn’t be. It should be full; it should be brimming with ideas and thoughts. She should have a plan—a design for her gift to her daughter.

Her second daughter—third child. [Name]. What images did her name illicit? What pictures did the thought of her face—her being—create in the queen’s mind?

For Idryla she had thought of sunlight—sunlight and rich, noble scarlet roses. She had thought of brightness and firmness and magnificence. Auspicious, golden fields and colorful, vivid flowers. Idryla reminded the queen of the earth—of the firmness of life; of the sureness of her prosperity in future endeavors.

The queen had used silk for Idryla’s tapestry—silk and wool, but still silk nonetheless. Idryla’s tapestry had come so easily to the queen. Her mind had come to life with all manner of thoughts and images, so vibrant and bright that when she had closed her eyes they had sat there before her, as real and vivid as if she were in the countryside, standing in a field of fragile, noble flowers and smelling the earth and the blossoms and all that which belonged to spring.

She’d started and finished the tapestry well before Idryla was married—months before, unlike she’d feared, what with the war and the planning for the wedding and the boy—

The boy.

_That boy_.

The queen’s still hands lowered, settled themselves into her lap where they could curl themselves into tight fists without drawing the attention of the servants. The knife was settling back into her chest, and it brought with it a heavy feeling—a terrible feeling. Like betrayal; like hatred.

The hatred she could never feel for those beloved by her, but which she could illicit in abundance for the boy—the young man—Johan had sent off to the war. She couldn’t even remember the man’s name—perhaps she’d never known it in the first place—but it didn’t matter if she didn’t know his name; she could hate him just as totally with or without it.

She’d almost lost her daughter to him—almost allowed her dear child to disgrace herself by running off with him. And she hadn’t even known—hadn’t even been aware of her daughter’s betrayal. Of her daughter’s terrible familiarity with that lowly guard and the horrible, shameful intimacy they’d shared.

For how long? How long had her daughter fooled her? How long had she pulled the deceiving, vibrant wool over her own mother’s eyes?

How long had her daughter been lying to her?

_How long had she been so blind to it?_

Bless the gods that her eldest daughter had discovered it—that she had been so perceptive and wise as to detect her sister’s deceitful and disgraceful relations and relate them to her ignorant mother and father. Bless the gods that there had still been time—that they had been able to rectify the girl’s foolish missteps before they could render any disastrous outcomes.

She should’ve known about it—been aware of at least a fragment of her daughter’s terrible secret. But she’d been oblivious. She’d been so totally and utterly in the dark—so unaware of the dishonorable life her daughter had planned to make with that man.

The life she’d almost disgraced herself for.

The _man_ she’d almost shamed herself for.

No man was worth such ignominy—such dishonor. Especially not one of such inferior upbringings. Such a man hadn’t deserved her daughter—_didn’t_ deserve her daughter. She was much too good for him—too highborn for so common a man. It would’ve been a crime for her to marry him—for her to run off with him as she’d said she would.

And he must’ve manipulated her into wanting such—into thinking that a life with him was worth abandoning all that she knew and was. He must have. The queen’s daughter would never have desired such a terrible, disgraceful future of her own accord.

Never.

She was better than that—so much better.

She was foolish to ever suppose anything less.

And that was why that horrible, terrible young man had persuaded her so—had lead her to want to run away with him. He’d wanted to debase her daughter—take her from her wonderful, safe pedestal and make her as lowly and disgraceful as him. Abhorrent men such as he took joy from adulterating and dishonoring women like her daughter.

And men such as he deserved the war—deserved a terrible, painful death at the hands of it. She wanted him to be killed in it, and she’d requested that Johan send him off to fight instead of exacting justice himself because she’d known that her beloved, soft, and sympathetic Johan could never exact perfect justice upon the young man.

Not in the way that a cold, detached enemy could.

Not in the way that such an abominable creature deserved.

Suddenly the queen started. She’d heard a sound—a knock, on her door—and she quickly blinked, chasing away the bitter, dark-colored thoughts clouding her head. She shouldn’t worry her mind with memories of that horrible young man—with wonderings of what could’ve become of her daughter if Idryla hadn’t told her of the girl’s plans.

The queen looked over at her maid, who sat quietly beside her, head bowed obediently and spools of colorful wool in her arms. The queen inhaled sharply through her nose and tossed the door to her sitting room a quick, sharp glance.

“Would you go see who that is?” she asked, though it was neither a question nor a request that had fallen from her lips. It was a demand—an order. Her firm, pressing tone had suggested nothing less.

“Of course, my queen.” The maid nodded and placed the spools of wool in her arms down near where she sat before standing. The queen didn’t watch the servant walk to the door—her gaze had fallen back to her loom and the unfinished tapestry sitting therein.

What images did the thought of her daughter bring to her mind? What emotions?

Hope. Love. Contentment. The happiness of having a daughter so well-learned and adept in all manners necessary for a woman born of such a high class.

Betrayal. Anger. Despair. The feeling of knowing that she had lied—that there were parts of her life that she had desired to keep hidden from her mother.

_That perhaps you didn’t know her as well as you thought you did._

“Princess [Name] is here to see you, Your Majesty.” The maid’s voice brought the queen out of her thoughts, but the room into which the queen reentered felt colder now than it had when she’d left.

An uncomfortable pressure had settled on her chest, pressing down on her firm heart. She took in a long, deep breath, waited, and then exhaled. “Let her in.”

The door creaked when it was opened wider, and the queen looked up—let her eyes meet those of her daughter. Her gaze was firm as she regarded the girl—for she was a girl, still. Sixteen. Old enough to be married, true, but for the queen, she would always be a girl. Her girl. Her little baby—so beautiful and small.

So perfect.

And so terribly foolish.

“Well, don’t just stand there, [Name].” The queen’s voice was firm when she spoke—firm and hard, like the pressure wrapped around her heart. Like discovering her daughter had been keeping such insidious secrets from her. “Come in—have a seat.”

She watched the girl hesitate—saw something soft and regretful flash in her wide eyes—before a tentative hardness settled in the flesh of her face—in the line of her lips—and she moved forward. Something like pride warmed the queen’s chest as she watched her daughter sit down next to her. How noble of the girl, to swallow her fear and shame—to approach her mother; to accept her punishment with her head raised and her spine straight.

Just how the queen had desired her to be.

At least she had not gone wrong in that regard.

The queen observed her daughter, watched her fold her hands in her lap—saw her try to hide their trembling. The queen’s gaze lifted—fled once more to her daughter’s face; to the eyes that no longer met hers. Something pulled at the queen’s heart as she regarded her daughter—as she took in the sight of the girl’s wary, tired eyes and shaking hands.

Why did she look so withdrawn? So tired and gray?

Immediately, she knew. She knew without having to ponder another moment as to the origin of her daughter’s melancholy.

The man—he was the cause for the grayness in her face; his disappearance from the castle was the source of her shaking.

The line of the queen’s mouth curled downwards into the shape of a sour, firm frown. Well, what of it? He was just a man—just a servant, inferior to her in every way. She would get over it—get over him. Forget him, even.

It would be better if she just forgot him. Terrible men such as he weren’t worth remembering.

They weren’t worth the headache.

“Well, what is it?” The queen’s frown deepened when her daughter remained quiet. It was bad enough that her hands were still. Her daughter had sought _her _out—had come to _her _sitting room during her hours of pause—and now she would either act in the manner the queen expected of her or she would leave. She’d wanted to run away—to be the wife of a lowly man—and if that was what she desired—to be a woman, an adult—then the queen would treat her as such. “Do you have something to say, or did you come here just to mope?”

The girl flinched—it was a small, inconsequential wince—a quick tensing of her muscles and blink of her eyes, but the queen had seen it. She’d seen it and her firm heart had mirrored it—had grimaced in the cage of her chest. The weight pressing down on her breast seemed to double, but the queen breathed through it.

If her daughter had wanted softness then she would’ve come to her mother before her sister had; she would’ve told her mother of her awful secret in person, instead of allowing a third party the chance to disgrace her.

“I have things in need of being done today,” the queen continued sharply, her voice smooth and firm. She thought of her unfinished tapestry and wrapped her fingers once more around the heddle stick. “And I haven’t the time to waste, child, so if you have nothing to say, then kindly show yourself the door.”

The girl remained quiet, and an exasperated sigh fell from the queen’s lips. She stifled the softness that had tried to rise to her throat—pushed it back with the weight of the heaviness pressing down on her chest—and lifted her gaze to meet that of her maid’s.

She nodded to the maid and let her eyes return to her loom, but before she could try to lose herself in her work, the girl spoke.

“I came to apologize.” Her voice was quiet—soft, like the silk Johan couldn’t afford for the tapestry. Her voice was like a whisper—a breath, falling from the lips of a child who’d thought she was a woman. “I wanted to say sorry—for upsetting you. For making you worry.”

The queen’s heart stilled. The breath that had filled her lungs suddenly disappeared—expelled by the weight pressing down on her. The firmness that secured her expression and hardened her eyes wavered, made infirm by her daughter’s words.

Her daughter’s small, fragile voice. So soft and tiny. Like a child’s. Like a baby.

Her baby.

Her baby.

She’d almost lost her.

Something pressed against the backs of the queen’s eyes—something firm and hard and still somehow soft and tender. Something wet and cool but still dry and hot—burning her eyes, making her vision waver and contort.

“I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble—you or Father,” her daughter continued quietly—softly. “I didn’t think—I didn’t mean—”

“It matters not what you meant, child,” the queen interrupted. Her voice was sharp, but there was a warmness to it—a wetness, almost, from the tears burning her eyes. “You acted foolishly. Irresponsibly. Deceitfully. You made yourself into a lowly criminal—a degenerate, keeping such awful secrets from your father and I. You nearly disgraced yourself—disgraced us; our kingdom. And for what? A man? _A servant_?”

The girl raised her head, and the queen saw tears shining in her eyes—saw glossy trails spilling down her wet cheeks. She opened her mouth and this time her voice was loud—was a cry, halting and breathy. “He’s not just a servant—”

“Yes, he is!” Now the queen was yelling, too. Shouting even though she had no need to—even though she knew that her daughter was close enough to hear her without her needing to raise her voice. But the weight on her chest was tight—so tight that she wanted to scream. “He’s a servant and you’re a princess and you _do not_ belong with his kind. He is _beneath _you, [Name],” she leaned closer to her daughter, her stare as hot and furious as her voice, “and you need to understand this and accept this because _nothing_ is going to change this. Do you understand?”

The girl was shaking. Tears were rolling down her cheeks and the firmness that had hardened her spine—that had given some rigidity to her frame—had fled, washed away by the tears wetting her skin.

The queen stared at her daughter—stared without blinking, without flinching despite the pain in her chest.

She had to be firm; she had to be hard.

How else would her daughter learn?

“Do you understand, [Name]?” the queen repeated sternly.

The girl stared at her. Her wet, glossy eyes were wide—wide and vulnerable and fearful. They were the eyes of a child. Her child. But no—not anymore, because as she watched they became hard and firm. Strong and regal, just as they should be.

Just as she’d wanted them to be.

“Yes, mother,” the girl said. When she spoke the queen could still hear the tears in her voice but gone now was the softness—the quietness that had earlier weakened her tone. Now she spoke as she should; now she spoke with the firmness of a princess.

Or a queen.

And it was all the queen of Alaimore could have hoped for.

So then why did she find it difficult to breathe?

“I understand.”


	12. CHAPTER TEN

** x. the princess and the stable boy **

**peasant**  
// the hands have eyes; the hands have ears. they watch from the background; they listen from the safety of their innocuous breeding. the hands serve; the hands wait. and one day, they will act.

* * *

**_Being a noblewoman meant engaging in conversation_ **with persons whom you’d rather never see—whom you wished didn’t exist. Being a noblewoman meant smiling politely at a man whose very voice and mannerisms were like daggers—pointed knives, dripping with the slick poison of arrogance and pride.

Being a noblewoman meant suspicion and hesitance; it meant turning to watch Ambassador Nivai walk away from you—to observe him and all he said with guarded, smiling eyes. It didn’t matter if you didn’t like him. It didn’t matter if you wished to never know him—to be as ignorant of his existence as you had been four weeks ago.

It didn’t matter if he was arrogant and unkind—if he was the sort of man who saw respect only in degrees of might; the sort of man who spoke softly only to persons in possession of the power to punish him for utilizing any other tone of voice.

He was your guest, and you were blessed to have him—blessed to know that he wouldn’t be joining you for supper.

But you shouldn’t think that—you shouldn’t have been delighted to discover his plans to enjoy his supper in the solitude of his room. You should’ve felt as your mother would have: disgruntled and critical, but only dignifiedly so—nobly so. Polite in your unhappiness, though impolite it was for your foreign guest to spurn you in such a manner.

Your mother wouldn’t have been elated, as you had been—she _won’t_ be elated, not when you divulge to her Nivai’s designs. She will be upset, and rightfully so; Nivai’s decision to forego a supper spent in the company of your family will only further her irritation.

Irritation with King Orelus, for arriving earlier than expected. Irritation with you, for failing to impress the king as you should have—for failing to give him a reason to prolong his visit.

You should’ve attempted to persuade him to stay—to defer his visit to the Hosha Empire for just a moment or two more. Even if you didn’t want him to stay; even if the sight of him—of his large, bearish figure and dark, unfeeling eyes—sent a cold chill down your spine. A chill that felt like fingers—thin, spindly fingers with long, yellowing nails and papery skin.

Like fear—like cold, nauseating terror.

But you were a noblewoman—a princess with a reputation to care for—and feelings were transient—ephemeral.

Character was what endured.

It didn’t matter if you feared him—if the thought of marrying him twisted your stomach and wrapped thick, choking fingers around your throat. It didn’t matter what he had done—the stories you had heard.

Of his conquest.

Of a king more monster than man, who squashed even the slightest hints of defiance under his iron heel—who slaughtered men and women and even _children _without so much as a bat of the eye.

A man without a conscience.

A man without a god.

But you might’ve looked desperate if you’d tried to sway him—too eager to win his favor, however critical it was. Desperation was not attractive—not in a wife, a queen—but neither was arrogance, and the path that ran between them—the path that you and many a woman before you had strived to toe—was thin and ever-changing. Ever-shifting.

Unfairly—unjustly.

Like mankind.

With Ambassador Nivai gone and the need to engage in frivolous pleasantries with him no longer of importance, you walked briskly down the hallway and toward the stables. Isil would be there—he would have to be there. The stables were his place of pause—his key to a space of calm.

You hoped he was calm. You hoped he had found some semblance of peace for himself while you were entertaining the king of Ceorid; while you were with your mother, recounting your brief dialogue with King Orelus; and then while you were with Ambassador Nivai, smiling and feigning dismay upon discovering his desire for solitude.

You hoped he was alright—that he had not gone off and done anything foolish. It was quite unlikely that he had—even when you were children, he had always been a thoughtful and level-headed soul—but even so, you walked quickly—purposefully.

The thoughtful did not yell obscenities in places of worship; the level-headed did not allow their emotions to overcome them.

Not as he had.

You entered the courtyard and took a left, and there were the stables—the home of your father’s prized steeds. He loved to ride—your father. He used to take Havel with him on little escapades through the country, back when Havel was young and still of a mind that desired to impress your father—back when Havel still pretended to care for horse riding.

He taught you how to ride—your father. He took you with him one time, on one of his little escapades. When he was searching for a friend—a partner he could share his passions with, now that his son had other interests to pursue. But you weren’t to be his riding partner—not you, but Isil. Isil and Adalleth. They were the companions your father had been searching for; they were the people who could share in his joy for riding—for exploring.

Even though Adalleth was but a servant—an inferior, with poor riding skills and etiquette—who made up for what he lacked in overall skill with passion—with a burning desire for knowledge. A devotion to learning—to becoming better than what he was.

Improving himself, though to you there had been little to improve.

But such was his desire—a desire to be better, to prove to people that he was worthy of praise. Of being considered an equal—a peer.

So he’d learned how to ride a horse—all but begged Isil to teach him. To better himself—to impress your father. His superiors: the people who looked down on him and saw not a person—not a man deserving of respect—but an inferior. A servant boy, undeserving of praise or esteem.

Never did they see in him an equal—a peer.

Not even in his death; not even when Isil brought him home to be buried.

Not even when his father cried—collapsed to his aching knees and sobbed over the body of his son.

His poor, broken boy.

You’d never apologized to him—never told him how sorry you were. How could you? How could you tell him how much you’d loved his son—how completely his death had destroyed you? How could you try and open your heart to him? How could you attempt to explain to him—to let him understand—how totally you’d empathized with him?

He wouldn’t have believed you. You were a princess—a superior. A sheltered girl who’d lived all her life in the safe confines of an impenetrable castle—in the warm, veiled embrace of her parents. How could you understand his pain? How could you understand how it felt to lose a son—a child? His only child—his only family.

His pride and joy. And you’d squandered it; you caused it to be lost—to be sent away to the frontlines to be slaughtered.

You were the reason Adalleth had died. You were the cause—your carelessness; your foolish, misplaced trust.

He must’ve hated you—blamed you, and rightfully so. He must’ve despised you; even in death, he must’ve abhorred you and all you stood for.

If he had, you couldn’t have blamed him—you don’t. Because it was your fault, and you deserved the blame.

Because if you had not come to know Adalleth, wouldn’t you have thought of him the same as every other noble did? Weren’t you just like them: peering down your nose at any and all persons who were not born of blood you deemed noble?

Like Ambassador Nivai, speaking down only to the people without the power to prove you wrong.

And how truly noble did that make you—did that make the people who called themselves lords and dukes and kings?

Picking on your lessers; abusing the weak and venerating the strong.

Sending an Adalleth off to his death because he’d tried to make himself your equal; marrying an Orelus because he possessed an army capable of destroying you.

You paused for a moment—took your hands and smoothed your skirt. You were in the presence of others, now. Watchful others—observant others. Somber thoughts didn’t belong here—you knew that. You’d made the mistake of allowing ideas inappropriate for your place in time to entertain your mind once before and look at what it had wrought: the death of a beloved son, the fury of a diligent mother, and the shame and despair of a myopic and naïve daughter.

Thoughts of Adalleth—of the consequences of your foolish desires—didn’t belong in spaces where they risked being seen by others.

They never had.

You offered the stable-hands a polite smile as you approached. Some immediately went to bow, ducking their heads in a show of respect, but others were so surprised by your sudden, unprecedented appearance that they just stared at you—ogled you like you were some spirit or mythical creature they’d always heard of but never laid eyes upon.

It didn’t surprise you. You rarely visited the stables.

Horse riding was Isil’s hobby, not yours.

Isil’s and Adalleth’s.

“Princess [Name]!” The stable master was the one who had approached you. He was a thin man, though short, with a rather patchy ginger beard and dark, almost beady eyes. His voice sounded slightly muffled, and you did your best to disguise your disgust when he opened his mouth and gave you a nice view of his half-chewed supper. “I—I wasn’t aware that Your Highness wished to go riding.” Something bright and hot was shining in the stable master eyes. It peeked out from behind a thick wall of respect—reverence, for the daughter of his king—and was nearly obscured his surprise. Fear—that’s what it was. Hot, burning fear. “I—I have no horses ready at the moment, but if you would just give me a few minutes I can—”

“Fret not, good man,” you started gently, cutting the stablemaster off. You were unsure of his name—though his face was a tad familiar—but such a detail was trivial. You didn’t need to know the names of your servants, only those of your peers and superiors. “I’m not in the mood for riding, today. I came to fetch my knight.” You paused and looked around—tried to hide a grimace when you inhaled. “I was quite certain that he would be here.”

The fear that had started to fade from the stablemaster’s eyes when you’d begun your explanation for being at the stables came rushing back, just as bright as it had been before beginning to dissipate. It was never wise to upset a royal, nor to be in their vicinity when they were dissatisfied.

Especially if one were the cause.

The stablemaster licked his lips and then swallowed. “Sir Isil?” he began tentatively. Fearfully. “I—I’m sorry to disappoint you, Your Highness, but I’m afraid I haven’t seen him. Not—not recently.”

Disappointment tugged at your polite smile until it was a frown, but that was all you let shown on your face—the only truthful emotion you could allow to surface. “Oh. I see. Well, in any case, thank you.”

If Isil hadn’t come here, then where had he gone?

Worry clung to your heart and pressed at the back of your throat, but you made sure to keep it there, hidden behind germane dissatisfaction. Disappointment was understandable, but concern? For a knight? A man who was neither your betrothed nor your kin?

How inappropriate.

“I-I saw him,” another voice tentatively spoke up—made you pause just as you were turning to leave.

You looked back—returned to where you were standing before turning away. A stable boy had approached you—ventured out from behind one of the wooden posts. He was a young boy—twelve or eleven—with dark, unkempt hair and a face darkened by dirt and filth. You thought you saw something in his hand: a staff—a walking stick, crudely fashioned.

The stablemaster looked over at him—eyed him distastefully. “Go back to work, boy,” he ordered. His voice was hard and sharp as he regarded the stable boy, not tentative and soft, as it had been while speaking to you. “Don’t waste the princess’s precious time with your lies.”

“But I-I did see him!” the boy replied vehemently. He stepped toward—limped further out from behind the wooden post. His feet were bare, and one was unnaturally twisted so that the sole faced inward.

A clubbed foot: the boy was deformed.

The stable boy looked at you. His eyes were wide—wide and honest—and he added, “I did see him! He came for his riding horse: Raelus. I swear he did.” The boy glanced behind him, at the other stable-hands. “Bram s-saddled his horse for him. Right, Bram?”

But the stablemaster simply glared at the boy—eyed him disbelievingly. “Quit it with your stories, boy.” The stablemaster’s voice was sharp and hot—colored with annoyance and something almost like irritation—and he started shooing the boy away like he was some sort of insect or nuisance.

You frowned at the stablemaster—at how quickly his demeanor had changed. How easily he had turned from an obedient, meek servant to a hardened master. It upset you—infuriated you. But who were you to judge? You, too, wore a mask; you, too, acted submissively in the presence of superiors.

“Wait,” you started. You replaced your distaste—swept it aside in favor of a more neutral expression. “Let the boy speak.” Your gaze fled back to the stable boy, and you motioned him forward with a hand. You wanted to smile at him—to let him know that you meant him no harm—but such would be foolish. The stablemaster could interpret it as an act of favoritism—of partiality for the boy. “If he knows something, then let him share it.”

The boy stared at you for a moment. You saw surprise in his wide eyes—shock, that you had believed him; chosen his word over the stablemaster’s—and then he limped over to you. The stablemaster watched the boy make his way over warily—cautiously, like he was afraid the boy might make a fool of himself, and by proxy, him.

When the boy was nearer to you, you bent down a little to speak more easily to him. He was rather short—small, for a boy his age. “You said you saw Sir Isil?” you asked. There was a gentleness now to your voice—a softness, reserved for the poor souls who feared you.

“Y-Yes.” The boy nodded furiously. The stablemaster nudged him with his hand, and then the boy hastily added, “Your Highness.”

You eyed the boy—observed the way he trembled, how his knees wobbled and knocked against one another. He was nervous—more so than he had been, now that he was so close to you. You offered him a smile—soft and warm and hopefully calming—and did your best to ignore his distasteful smell. “And when did you see him?”

The boy swallowed, but his shaking lessened. “A little a-after noon, Your Highness,” he replied. “He hasn’t c-come back; his horse—his horse isn’t here.”

Your smile softened, and the look in your eyes was kind—comforting. “So he’s still out riding?”

The boy nodded. “P-Probably, Your Highness.”

A sigh fell from your lips, and you cast your gaze down for a short, fleeting moment. You had to talk to him; you had to let him know that you cared—that he could depend on you. That he could trust you as readily as you’d thought he already did. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to wait.” You looked up again—glanced at the stable boy and offered him another smile. Thanks—you wanted to thank him, for helping you. For doing more than he was aware; more than the stablemaster had been able to. “Will you keep me company while I wait?” Your eyes fled away from the boy—to the stablemaster. “Both of you?”

The stablemaster was quick to nod—to accept your invitation without hesitance. “Absolutely, Your Highness.” He nudged the boy with his hand again, and the child nodded just as vehemently. “We would be honored.” He looked down at the boy—stared at him with hard, stony eyes. “Go fetch the princess a clean stool.”

The boy turned and limped off quickly. He moved faster—faster than you would have expected him to.

You looked away from the boy—eyed the stablemaster instead. You had to ask, now; you needed to if you wanted to tell your father of their cordiality.

You should.

Kindness, however small it was, should never go unrewarded.

“Forgive me, but I’m afraid I don’t quite know how to call you.” You offered the thin, ginger-haired man a smile. “Is there some name you’d rather me refer to you by?”

The stablemaster’s eyes widened, but then he slapped on a quick, pleasant smile. “Please call me Olten, Your Highness. Olten Naegan.”

The stable boy came back, awkwardly bearing a crude wooden stool. He hurried to place it down near you before stepping away, retreating until he was nearly hidden behind his employer.

Your eyes followed the boy, and you regarded him warmly. “And what about you? What’s your name?” you asked softly.

The boy stared at you and then looked quickly away—shyly. You supposed he hadn’t expected a princess to ever ask him for his name—to ever care that he had one.

“R-Rulen,” the boy replied. His voice was somewhat mumbled, as though he were ashamed of his name. “My name’s Rulen, Y-Your Highness.”

Your smile widened—reached almost to the corners of your eyes. “Rulen?” you echoed. “What lovely names: Rulen and Olten.” You moved to sit down on the stool, and the stablemaster followed you—quickly wiped the seat down with a piece of coarse fabric. “You know, Rulenis is the name of one of goddess Naadis’s sons.”

The boy straightened a bit—perked up a little at your words. “Really?”

“Yes.” You nodded and paused a moment to smooth down your skirt. “He’s the god of the winds, and, really, a very good navigator.” You leaned a little closer to the boy. “He’s the one who taught man how to sail.”

Rulen smiled at that. Something like pride glimmered in his eyes—satisfaction, to have such an important namesake. “Woah. That’s really cool!” The boy moved a little closer to you, and his movements grabbed Olten’s attention. The stablemaster raised his hand and grabbed Rulen’s shoulder. “Hey—oh.” Rulen stopped in his advance and moved back beside Olten. “I-I’ve never been on a ship before.”

You swallowed a frown and smiled at Rulen. “Neither have I.” You sat back up—straightened your spine. “But my brother’s been on plenty. He’s gone nearly all over the world.” Your voice grew a little quieter—secretive, almost. “He’s told me plenty of stories. Do you want to hear them?”

Without a hint of hesitation, Rulen nodded. He didn’t move away from Olten, but he leaned forward, using his walking stick for balance.

You smiled, and this time it did reach your eyes—crinkled them at the corners. You’d always been good at storytelling. Adalleth used to love it when you read to him, and Didi had always enjoyed your bedtime stories—your re-tellings of the tales your nursemaid and grandmother used to lull you to sleep with.

It was how she fell asleep, and she used to be unable to go to bed without one. But she’s older, now. She doesn’t need to be told bedtime stories to fall asleep anymore.

And perhaps it was better that she didn’t.

You only have so many stories to tell.


	13. CHAPTER ELEVEN

** xi. the princess and the penitent **

**felon**  
// humanity is his disease. it has given him a shovel, and with it he dug himself a hole. the bottom he found on his own, but without another, the top was forever out of reach.

* * *

**_The stable boy and his master made for a rather pleasant audience._ **They were silent and attentive; respectful, though perhaps only out of fear. Out of a desire to serve—to please you so that their lives might continue undisturbed.

And how terribly you could disturb them.

The stable master—Olten Naegan, if you remembered correctly—eventually did excuse himself. Work—or perhaps his supper—was in need of completion, and though he did so terribly wish to remain in your company, he was also so awfully busy that it simply wasn’t feasible.

His only hope was that you, his dearest and loveliest princess, would understand his troubles.

Should you?

You could say no; you could take offense—act appalled at the thought of another pursuit taking precedence over you. You could use your power—your clot as a princess of Alaimore—to keep him with you—to punish him for wanting to leave your company.

Use him as your scapegoat—your whipping boy. Because you could; because here you had authority—faculty. No one would care—not your parents. Not the people who mattered—who had the power to stop you.

He was just a servant.

Just a man.

_Adalleth had been just a servant, too._

“Of course.” You nodded your head—offered the ginger-haired man a small, comforting smile. “How selfish of me—to keep you from your duties.” You shifted a little in your seat upon the crude wooden stool Rulen had fetched for you. The rough wood pressed up uncomfortably against your tailbone, but you did well to hide your frown. “Go ahead—go. You’re excused.”

The relief that washed over Olten’s face was palpable and nearly insulting, but still, you smiled—simpered at him sweetly. Warmly.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Olten bowed his head and began to turn away, but then he looked back—shot the dark-haired boy sitting in front of you a wary, hesitant glance.

Rulen didn’t catch the look; he was too enthralled in waiting for you to continue your storytelling that he hardly paid his cautious master any mind. But you saw the look—recognized the wariness shining in the man’s eyes. Children were but necessary poisons—liabilities that one had no choice but to account for. But they were valuable, too. Valuable liabilities, if such a thing could exist.

Your face was turned to the stablemaster, and before his worries could manifest themselves into action, you leaned forward to place a hand on Rulen’s shoulder. Your touch was light, but you could still feel the shape of the boy’s arm—the odd narrowness of his immature shoulder.

“I have some more tales I’d like to tell,” you started smoothly. You offered Olten a polite, encouraging smile and then glanced briefly at the boy seated before you. “They’re perfect for an audience of one, unless you require Rulen for some task of sorts.”

The stablemaster’s dark eyes widened just a fraction, and then he hastily shook his head. “No—no of course not, Your Highness.” His reply was quick—vehement. Fearful of running his princess’s patience thin—of offending her. “I simply wanted to—to—to wish you a pleasant evening, that is all.” His eyes moved quickly—from you to Rulen and back again—and then he swallowed and bowed his head. “G-Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.” You watched Olten depart but then, once his back was to you, your eyes fled to Rulen. The boy’s head had turned; his wide-eyed stare had settled on the stablemaster—observed the ginger-haired man with a certain thoughtfulness.

A certain hesitance.

“Rulen?” Your hand had fallen from the boy’s shoulder, but touched you it again gently—briefly—to garner his attention. “Is there something wrong?”

The thoughtful look clouding Rulen’s eyes was suddenly burned away—chased off by the sound of his name—and he blinked, gave his head a little shake, and then turned to you. “Huh? Oh—no.” Rulen shifted in his seat upon an overturned pail, and he moved his crudely fashioned walking stick so that it fell across his lap. And then he corrected himself. “No, Your Highness.”

You regarded the boy carefully—eyed how his hesitance was almost curious. Unsure. Confused. And then your gaze fell to the walking stick sitting in his lap, and a small smile rose to your lips.

“Did you make that?” you asked softly. You nodded at the staff in his hands, and he quickly glanced down at it—like he hadn’t known he’d even been holding it. “Your walking stick, I mean. It’s very nice.”

The hesitance in Rulen’s eyes vanished, and another smile spread across his lips. It was golden—proud and satisfied. But now because of something he had done—something he had made.

He fingered the staff in his lap—ran his hand across the carved wood—and then raised his eyes and met your gaze. “Yeah!” His voice was bright and cheerful and full of a delighted sort of glee, and his smile widened—stretched from one ear to the other. “Yeah—I did. Do you like it? Sir Hilift and Master Naegen helped me. They’re—they’re really good at carving and stuff.”

Confusion rose in your chest—pressed against the backs of your eyes. It threatened to settle in the planes of your face, but you pushed it back—kept it out of the curve of your lips.

When had Isil been apprenticed to a woodworker? He’d always been a swordsman—a fighter, just like his father. And a very good one—a very talented one. He was unparalleled—undefeated, though rare it was that he was challenged.

He was the best; he was the greatest swordsman to have ever lived.

And his talent exceeded all those but the gods themselves.

But wood carving? When had he ever desired to be a woodcarver? You tried to remember—to recall a memory of Isil before he was a swordsman. Before he didn’t fit nicely into the shoes of his father. But he’d always fit nicely—snugly. A perfect son; a perfect successor.

Perfect, just like his sword fighting skill.

And then the memories came. They were hazy and faded—delicate, like worn fabric. Thin, transparent fabric that dripped like water from your hands. You remembered a shape—a block of wood crudely carved into a figure that resembled the shape of a horse. You remembered tools, packed away into a little chest and hidden—tucked behind a pillow. And then disappearing—being taken somewhere.

Away.

Where had they gone?

“Y-Your Highness? Princess [Name]?” Rulen was talking—calling your name. He sounded concerned—concerned and curious.

You closed your eyes, and something bitter and resentful spread across your tongue. You’d daydreamed again—lost yourself in your thoughts. You shouldn’t have; you knew you shouldn’t have and yet you had.

“Oh, my apologies.” You opened your eyes and regarded Rulen warmly—forced your lips to curl into the shape of a kind smile. “I just drifted off for a moment.” You’d made a mistake, but he was a child—a little boy who’d fashioned a walking stick for himself and took pride in sharing the name of a god. And if you acted as though nothing had happened, perhaps he would believe the same. “Now, you said Sir Isil helped you make that nice staff of yours?”

Just as you’d hoped, much like his earlier hesitance, the concern that had filled Rulen’s eyes fled, and he beamed at you. “Yeah. Him and Master Naegan. They helped me a lot.” Rulen’s voice grew a little higher and quicker, increasing in time with his excitement. “Sir Hilift helped me get the wood, and he showed me how to hold the knife and let me borrow his tools, because he said he didn’t need them.”

“He did?” The smile on your lips warmed and grew less forced—less deceitful. It was something about the way Rulen spoke—of your friend; of his ginger-haired employer. Something about the satisfaction in his voice—the pride that his walking stick embodied.

The honor that came with knowing his hands had created something worthy of praise.

It was so familiar.

“Uh-huh! And Master Naegan—he gave me some of his candles, so I could work on it when it got dark,” Rulen continued. His voice had slowed—lowered again in lieu of a certain thoughtfulness. A memory, rising to his face. “And he sat with me sometimes…” He lowered his gaze again—stared down at his walking stick.

Rulen’s smile faltered. Like the memory saddened him; like the memory ignited a melancholy within him.

A longing.

“Well, that was very kind of them,” you reached out a hand and offered Rulen a comforting pat on the arm, “to do that for you.”

Slowly, Rulen nodded his head. “Yeah. It was.” He glanced up again—added, “Your Highness.”

An amused chuckle rose to your throat, and you smiled.

And then came a commotion—rising from outside the stables: voices and the sound of horse’s hooves. It grabbed your attention—had you turning away from Rulen and standing. And then your eyes fell on him: Sir Isil. He was clad in the same attire as when you’d last seen him, but now the clothes were a little dirtier—a little messier.

He hadn’t seen you yet; he was busy dismounting from his horse and greeting the stablehands who came to take the beast from him. He was polite when speaking to them—polite and warm, though somewhat distracted. Distracted and disgruntled, but kind enough not to take it out on those below him.

Olten Naegan came out from where he’d disappeared and approached Sir Isil, but you sat back—watched him quietly from afar instead of going immediately to him as you had originally desired. He appeared a touch calmer—more put together than he had been earlier.

That was good; that must be good.

Isil greeted Olten, but then confusion flashed across his face, and he started looking around. “Hey,” you heard him say, befuddlement and concern coloring his voice, “where’s Rulie?”

Rulen perked up at the sound of his name, and he jumped to his feet and eagerly yelled, “Over here!”

Isil looked over at Rulen, and the warm relief that had filled his eyes suddenly froze when his gaze met yours. He paused and stared at you. The look in his eyes—in his face—was unreadable. It was cold, and warm, and everything and nothing. And maybe you shouldn’t have come—maybe you shouldn’t have sought him out.

Maybe you should’ve left him alone—let him find comfort on his own.

But no—you shouldn’t have done that. You couldn’t have done that.

He meant too much to you.

Rulen started waving at him, and Isil lifted his arm and waved back. And then he parted from Olten—started walking over to you and Rulen. You still couldn’t decipher the look in his eyes—couldn’t discern the emotions seeping into the lines of his face—but you didn’t move away.

“Welcome back!” Rulen chirped. Cheerfulness colored his voice and face, and he beamed at Isil.

Isil looked down at him and smiled. “Thanks,” he replied with a chuckle. The look in his eyes was soft and warm—caring. Almost like how he regarded you. “What’re you doing all the way over here, kiddo? You had me scared for a moment.”

The boy frowned. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I was keeping Princess [Name] company.” Then the look in his eyes brightened, and he smiled again. “Her stories are really good. And you know what she said? She said Rulenis i-is the name of a god.”

“Really?” Isil replied. He sounded genuinely surprised, but there was still amusement in his voice, and he patted Rulen’s head—ruffled his hair like they were kin. “And what does that mean, hmn?” He crouched down in front Rulen—looked him up and down. “Do I need to start worshipping little old Rulie?”

The boy simpered. “Maybe,” he replied cheekily.

“Rulen!” Olten called suddenly. He was standing a little away from the three of you—deeper within the confines of the stable—and there was a look of urgency decorating his face. “C’mere. The others need your help with the bridle.”

Realization made Rulen’s eyes wide, and he glanced away from Isil. “Oh—coming!” he called back. He looked back at Isil—offered him another wide, toothy smile. A gleeful smile. “See you later.” And then he remembered you, and he offered you a quick bow of the head. “A-and goodbye to you too, Princess [Name].”

You smiled at the boy. “Goodbye, Rulen.”

He turned away and scurried off, moving just as fast as he had when he’d left to fetch a stool for you. But this time, you noted how much he relied on the walking stick to get around—how he leaned on it and extended it and moved with it. Like it was part of his body.

And Isil had had a part in making it.

Your eyes fled to him—to his shape, still crouched and turned to stare at the space where Rulen had disappeared. He hadn’t acknowledged you yet—not with words.

Was he upset? With you?

Or did he just not know what to say?

“How was your ride?” Your voice was tentative—careful—as was your question. There were too many people around—too many ears and eyes.

A pause. Isil lilted his head to the side, cleared his throat, and then slowly replied, “It was…fine.”

You swallowed your frown—watched him carefully.

He was lying.

“Why’d you come here?” Isil continued. He straightened back to his full height, but he didn’t meet your eyes—didn’t even look your way. “I thought you didn’t like the stables.”

You looked at him—tried to get a glimpse of his face. But how could you when he wouldn’t look at you? “I came to see you.” You spoke honestly—truthfully. Like you always used to. Because you could always be honest with Isil; you could always trust him.

He looked at you then, and there was surprise in his eyes—pale, bright surprise that seemed to flood every crevice in his face. Surprise and then guilt, crushing the light—causing it to crumble to ugly ash.

It pulled at you—tugged at something tender deep inside you.

“Isil, what’s wrong?” You stepped closer to him—ignored everything else in you telling you to keep your distance in fear that someone could see you. “And don’t lie and tell me everything’s fine because I know you and I know that it isn’t.” You placed a hand on his arm and looked up into his eyes—his familiar, warm eyes. Your voice was soft and pleading and earnest, and it colored the skin of your face. “_Please_. I just want to help you. You can trust me. You know you can trust me.”

Isil stared back at you, and something filled his eyes—shone briefly in them before he pressed them close. And then he took a breath and opened his eyes—looked around. Quickly, he looped his arm around yours and lead you out of the stables—into the fresh air.

He kept walking—tugging you along in the direction of a destination only he knew. Eventually, he found it: a little alcove in a hallway temporarily devoid of guards. There he brought you, and there he waited for a moment. There was little room in the space to which he had taken you, and it forced you to stand close to him. Intimately close, so that your body was all but pressed up against his.

You could smell the outside on him—could feel his breath on your cheek. Feel his warmth, bleeding through his clothes and into yours. It bothered you; it made you want to pull away—to press closer.

He’d been this near only once before.

And then he spoke.

“[Name], I…” His voice trailed off; he wasn’t looking at you again. He was looking down—at the wall you were both tucked against. But you were staring at him—at his face, so close to your own. “I’m sorry.” His voice was quiet and tender—soft, a whisper. “I shouldn’t have ran, I know. I shouldn’t have made you worry about me like that and I’m sorry and I’m an idiot and a fool and—”

“Isil,” you interrupted him quietly. “Don’t say that. You’re not a fool.” You raised your hands—brought them up against his cheeks and cupped his face. “You’re not anything of the sort.” He was looking at you now—staring at you with wide, wounded eyes—and you stared back up at him. His skin was warm, and you could feel his heartbeat, brushing the fingers pressed against his neck. “Just tell me why, alright? That’s all I want to know.”

He stared at you, and a sheen came to his eyes—made them wet and shiny. He closed them—tried to blink the tears away. And when he finally spoke, his voice was soft and low and muffled. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Something in your heart seemed to crack—snap, like a frail twig. Because of his words; because of what they meant.

And now you couldn’t deny it.

“You won’t, Isil.” You wanted to let go of his face—to stop touching him; to stop stringing him along like he was a dog. A plaything. Because touching him and knowing how he felt—knowing how you felt—was wrong. Was cruel. But you couldn’t let go of him. If you moved away from him now, nothing of what you said afterwards would hold any weight. “I’m only getting married. I’m not going to disappear.”

He brought one of his hands up—pressed his gloved fingers against the back of your hand. “You don’t know that,” he muttered. “You don’t know what he can do.”

You brought your face closer to his and peered up into his familiar eyes. “He’s just a man, Isil.” You tried to smile at him, but your lips felt heavy. “You overestimate him.”

Isil inhaled slowly. “And you underestimate him,” he murmured. The tenderness lingered in his gaze, but the hurt had begun to fade—burned away by a soft content.

You hummed, and then the two of you stood in comfortable silence for a moment. And then, slowly, you started to let your hands drop from his face.

“There’ll be an empty seat at the dinner table tonight.” You started to draw away from Isil, but he caught one of your hands in his own—held on to it. You wanted to tell him to let go. And yet, at the same time, you didn’t want to say anything. “If you’d like, it could be yours.”

Isil wrapped his fingers around your hand. They were rough and worn, but warm. Familiar. You watched him look down at it—at your hands together. “What happened to its owner?”

You brought your free hand to the one holding yours—gave his a kind but firm pat. “He opted not to take it.”

Slowly, Isil began to loosen his grip—allowed his fingers to go slack—and he looked back up at you. “That won’t go over well with the queen.”

“No, it won’t,” you affirmed.

Another silence. Stretching. He stared at you, and you met his gaze, albeit hesitantly now.

You should tell him—tell him to move on. To forget about you. You should step away from him—leave the alcove and make space between the two of you. He deserved that. He deserved to be happy.

But he wouldn’t be, not if he stayed with you.

A good friend would be able to turn him away; a good friend wouldn’t lead him on.

So then why did you find it so hard to be one?

“Supper does sound rather nice right now,” Isil finally said. And then, despite the small confines, he offered you his arm.

And you took it.

He lead you out of the alcove and into the hallway just in time for the two of you to watch the guard patrolling the halls disappear around the far corner. Isil and you shared a look, and then a relieved and somewhat mischievous smile spread across the both of your faces.

If you had been found—

Your mother would have skinned you alive.

“To the dining hall?” he asked. His voice was calm again—level.

You smiled. Even though it was wrong of you to—wrong of you to string him along. Even if you meant it; even if there was a part of you that wasn’t leading him on.

A part that only seemed to grow.

“Why, of course.” You nodded your head. “Lead the way.”

And he did.


	14. CHAPTER TWELVE

** xii. the princess and the dreamer **

**romantic**  
// tradition has no use for the hopeful. love has no place in the bride’s bed. she gives what she cannot have to the young—to the ones she holds most dear.

* * *

**_The queen of Alaimore had not been_ **pleased to learn of Ambassador Nivai’s desire to forego a supper spent in the company of the royal family, but after a short exchange with your father, she’d begrudgingly assented to it. The king had assured her that the ambassador would most definitely be present for breakfast the next morning.

Of course he would be present; he was a man without kindness, not a man devoid of manners.

Well, now morning had come. You and your siblings and father and mother were seated at the table, but there was still an unoccupied chair—an extra seat pulled up for your foreign guest. It was like a bruise—an ugly blemish on your mother’s clear, unbroken pride.

She was still simmering from yesterday’s slight; Ambassador Nivai was only adding fuel to her fire. You could hear it crackling in the silence blanketing the breakfast table. The heat was prickling, brushing your arms and face like pointed fingertips, and the flames flickered back and forth like the tail of a crouching cat, or the tongue of a viper, waiting to leap out from the underbrush.

You didn’t look up from your plate, empty though it was; you didn’t glance at Didi or Havel or Tealai. Movement could set the viper off—could cause the cat to spring forward and sink its claws into the flesh of the mouse. If you looked up you could risk sparing the empty seat a glance—your gaze could catch on your mother’s or your father’s or Isil’s.

Isil. His presence had softened your mother’s anger—given her better reason to contain it. He wasn’t a simple servant—a disposable man whose thoughts and deeds held no clot against her own. He was a noble—a champion—who had bound himself in service to his king.

He had presence. He had authority.

He needn’t be aware of the less-than-friendly dealings between the ambassador of Ceorid and his king. He needn’t have any more reason to doubt the integrity of the treaty.

You heard movement—the soft pad of a servant’s feet—and you chanced a glance in the direction of the sound. Your father had called a servant over. They stood near him and bent their head toward his face, and he muttered something into their ear. They nodded and then scurried off, disappearing with quiet alacrity through the doors and down the hall.

Silence again swallowed the room once the servant was gone. It was a pressing silence, like a bed being made—a linen sheet, stretched and tucked tightly over table and body.

Your gaze fell from your father before his face could turn to you, and then you heard a rustling from your left: Didi, fidgeting in her seat—shifting to stave off a stiffness from forming in her legs.

She glanced at you out of the corner of her eye, and you tilted your head toward her—tried to angle your ear so you could hear her whisperings clearer.

“I’m hungry,” she muttered. Her gaze fled to the empty seat, and then to your father and mother, the latter of whom had her stony gaze fixed upon the doors to the room. “We should just start eating. It’s obvious he isn’t coming.”

You stared past Havel—let your gaze settle on the far wall. Isil didn’t often stay around for breakfast—he had other duties to tend to in the meantime—though this time he had. Perhaps it was because of what happened last night. Perhaps it wasn’t.

He shouldn’t. He was only doing his duty, but you knew it was more. You’d always known, hadn’t you?

But it didn’t matter. What was done was done, and soon he would no longer have any duty to you.

He was your father’s knight, not yours.

Sometimes you forgot that.

“You don’t know that,” you replied softly, but the response was more of a force of habit than it was a true rebuttal of your sister’s comment. Ambassador Nivai had not seemed awfully keen to dine with your family last night, and you doubted his feelings had changed now that it was day. “Besides, you can wait; you’re not going to starve.”

You saw Didi’s shoulders slump—caught her briefly slouch back in her seat before she remembered where she was and her spine was made straight once again.

Didi tilted her head down and ran the pad of her finger over the designs decorating the lip of her empty plate. “I’m not worried about starving,” she started quietly, “I just don’t want to be stuck here for another hour waiting for a man who won’t be arriving.” She shifted again in her chair, and you saw her wince. “I’m getting sore.”

“We’ll take a walk after this, then,” you replied without hesitation, “but don’t slouch. You’ll just make Mother upset.”

Didi paused her tracing, and her eyes fled briefly to your mother and then back to her plate. “She’s already upset,” she murmured.

Your eyes fled to Didi’s bowed head, and you allowed yourself a small frown. “Then don’t make it any worse.”

The door opened, and you and Didi fell silent, but the man who entered wasn’t Nivai—it was the servant whom your father had sent scurrying off to tend to some task of his. He wasted no time in crossing the room to where your father sat and leaning down to murmur something in his ear, and once he’d finished relaying whatever message he’d carried with him, your father dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

A sort of paleness—a discomfort—had come to your father’s face, and now all the eyes at the table were turned upon him. The silence thickened, and your father cleared his throat.

“Well, ah,” he started slowly, his tone tentative and deliberate, “it would appear that our dear—dear guest would rather eat…alone, this morning.”

The fire cracked and popped, and the heat grew so terribly warm that it felt like it was burning you. Your mother’s eyes narrowed and her posture stiffened, and your father hastened to finish his thought.

“For our own benefit, of course. He woke up…late this morning,” your father added. He was looking at all of you, but his gaze lingered on your mother—on the woman who was most spurned by Ambassador Nivai’s actions. “He’d rather not waste any more of our time by making us…wait for him.”

Something flashed in your mother’s eyes, and the flames flickered and hissed. “Is that really his excuse?” she replied sharply, and her narrowed gaze fixed itself upon the far door. “He’s already gone and squandered so much of it. What harm could there be in wasting an hour or two more of our _precious_ time?”

“Dear—” your father started.

“I expected better of a man who claims to come in pursuit of peace,” your mother continued hotly. The line of her mouth was curled into the shape of a frown, and though it was not for your father that her spite was intended, she turned her sharp, scathing glare upon him. “He suffers at the thought of wasting our _time_? How humorous. What a wonderful jest. I haven’t even been given the chance to lay eyes upon this man’s _face_—”

“Mira—_Mira_,” your father interrupted her. He was the only one who could ever get away with doing such—the only one who was never chastised or punished for it. He leaned toward your mother, and there was a hint of supplication in his eyes. It reminded you of how he had acted last night: pleading with your mother—begging her not to let her anger get the best of her. “We were incredibly…_busy_ last night, dear. A-and the ambassador was looking rather pale—”

“Are you trying to _excuse _his conduct?” Your mother straightened her spine and peered at your father.

“No—no, of course not, Mira.” Your father shook his head vehemently, and then his gaze fell on yours—on the little quartet of onlookers peering curiously in on the exchange between him and his wife. “I simply—it’s a new day. Why don’t we start it off right?” He sat back in his chair but never looked away from your mother. “Let’s save talk of the ambassador for when he’s here.”

For a moment your mother stared at him, her eyes narrowed and gaze sharp and biting, but slowly the hardness waned, and with a quiet sigh, her glare softened. It wasn’t the end—the culmination and death of her fury for being so callously rebuked—but peace was peace, no matter how short.

“Now, ah, I thought it best that we left the more…specific details concerning the wedding to you and [Name], dear,” your father continued lightly. The topic of conversation had been shifted, but you did not begin gathering food for your plate until your father had served himself and your mother, and your brother had done the same for his wife and himself. “So you will indeed be seeing the ambassador today.”

Something like discomfort grabbed at your stomach, but you kept your gaze even—neutral. This was your duty, and you could bear it just as easily as Idryla and Tealai had borne theirs.

Orelus was just a man. You’d said so—you’d told Isil so. Marrying him was your fate—your destiny. And who could run from destiny?

No one.

You had to accept it—embrace it with open, willing arms. Attempting to escape it was foolish. It was absolute; there was no escape from it.

“A wedding?” a soft voice exclaimed. Tealai—it was Tealai who had spoken. She rarely spoke at the table, often because the conversation never touched on topics of interest to her. But today her dusty blue eyes were wide and sparkling, and her soft pink lips were curled into a dreamy smile. “Oh, I _love _weddings. May I help?”

Tealai’s voice was light and airy, like downy feathers, and it softened whatever fire there still burned in your mother’s eyes. She didn’t look at you when she spoke; she eyed your mother—the true authority concerning all matters related to your wedding.

“Of course, dear,” your mother replied almost gently. She always spoke gently to Tealai—everyone did. Tealai was a soft creature; how else were you to engage with her? “We’d be delighted to have your help. Just make sure you don’t…_strain_ yourself.”

You swallowed a flinch at your mother’s choice of words, but Tealai appeared wholly undisturbed. Her cottony smile widened, and she let her head fall back.

“Oh, _thank _you,” she breathed, her wide eyes shining. “It’ll be so happy—so wonderful. Fraught with opportunity! Weddings always are.” Suddenly, a thought crossed her mind and she sat up, and her pink lips pulled themselves into the shape of a surprised ‘o’. “And perhaps we could invite my cousin, Lord Nirman? He would be so delighted to come, I’m sure.” Tealai’s wide eyes found yours, and she smiled enthusiastically at you. “You remember my cousin, don’t you [Name]?”

Yes, you remembered him, albeit barely. You’d met him at Tealai and Havel’s wedding. He’d been a rather serious man—not the type you’d assume would frequent celebrations or parties, or enjoy them for that matter. You hadn’t exactly taken to him, either, though he’d been rather interested in you—in what you could provide for him.

You hadn’t heard word of him since then, not that you particularly minded the absence. He hadn’t seemed a man worth knowing, and you certainly didn’t consider yourself close enough to him to invite him to your wedding.

“I do…” you began slowly but lightly. You kept your tone conversational—cool but airy. Weightless and amicable. “However, I don’t believe our relationship to be intimate enough to warrant an invitation. What reason should he have to come?”

The light in Tealai’s eyes didn’t waver, but something like shock crossed her face at your inquiry. “Why, to meet Didi, of course,” she replied lightly.

Didi let out a sudden, hacking cough, and every face was suddenly turned her way. You caught looks of concern flash across your mother’s and father’s faces, but then they disappeared when Didi’s coughing quieted.

“W-what?” she sputtered. She grabbed for a cloth napkin and wiped at her face, and then she looked up and stared at Tealai and then at your mother and finally at you. Her eyes were wide with shock, but you saw something like horror sinking into her dark pupils. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that, Tea? Why is [Nickname] inviting your cousin again?”

Tealai tilted her head and smiled. “To meet you.” She paused and closed her eyes for a moment as she thought. “I think you two would make for such a lovely match.”

Before Didi could reply, Havel suddenly piped up. “I disagree,” he started. He’d been silent for most of the morning, quietly eating and listening—neither of which he did on the regular—but now he’d lifted his head and inserted himself into the conversation. “That is, if we’re talking of the same Lord Nirman. This _is _the one obsessed with pigs, correct?”

For once, Tealai’s pink lips were pulled into a small frown. “He’s not _obsessed_, Havey.”

“Are you _sure_?” Havel squinted at her. “I don’t mean any offense, honey, but your cousin can be a little…strange when it comes to pigs.”

“He looked like one, too,” you heard Didi mutter. You glanced at her, and she looked up to meet your gaze. Distaste was swimming in her eyes, but underneath it was fear—cold, prickling fear. The same that curled its fingers into the flesh of your stomach.

You’d almost forgotten that she was old enough to be married. She’d always seemed so young to you—so naïve and childish—but she could be married off just as readily as you were. She could be divested of her hopeful dreams just as easily as you had been.

“I remember him,” your father added. There was a brightness to his eyes—a relief that the topic of conversation had changed so quickly. “He was a very polite man; I rather enjoyed his company.” Something like a frown slipped onto your father’s face. “It was a shame we didn’t pursue further contact with him.”

“Is he your father’s nephew?” your mother asked, looking at Tealai. Her tone was light, conversational, and so offhanded that it nearly rendered the question dismissive.

You knew better.

But Tealai wasn’t so jaded—so suspicious—and she just smiled at your mother. “No, my mother’s.”

Didi was going to be married. Not to her Alourli—to her dreams and hopes—but to a lord—to Tealai’s swine-obsessed cousin. To the reality in which she lived.

Just like you. Just like Idryla and Tealai and every other noblewoman.

Of course it would happen. You knew it would, at some time or another.

So then why was there a heaviness in your chest and a desperation pounding your heart? Why were your hands shaking? Why were you so surprised?

Why did you feel a need to open your mouth—to try and give your mother and father reason to hesitate?

“I mean this only kindly, but perhaps we should save talk of Didi’s wedding for when it is closer upon us,” you began carefully. You looked at your father as you spoke but spared your mother a brief, hesitant glance. Your lungs felt as though they were shivering, but your voice was even and light. “Besides, I’d rather wait some before we delve too deeply into planning for the wedding.” You paused and then forced a kind, almost supplicative smile. “What I mean is that I’d like for Idryla to be present—to help me.”

There was silence at first. Your father and mother eyed you quietly, but then Tealai ended the pause.

“Oh, you’re right. I’m sorry.” An apologetic look had come to her face, and her wide eyes were full of nothing save guilt. “I suppose I got a little carried away.”

You smiled at Tealai, but the grin was fake and sour tasting. “It’s alright, Tea—water under the bridge.”

“It would be no trouble to invite your sister,” your father said, drawing your attention back to him. He grinned at you, and the smile was so honest and warm that it made you almost ashamed of the forced simper you’d mustered. “Dare I say, it would be a crime if we didn’t.”

But a lie was what you needed—what kept you safe and sound.

Isil was wrong; the gods were correct to keep Mehreus locked away. It would be chaos if he were allowed to roam freely amongst mortals—complete and utter chaos.

Truth was dangerous; it was safer—better—to just keep it hidden—covered by a safe, comforting lie.


	15. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

** xiii. the princess in preparation **

**fiancée**  
// she used to dream of marriage, of being forever bound to one—one love, one life. but now the thought of it burns her, and she turns her face at the sight of it.

* * *

**_Conversation waned and softened _**as your plates were filled, and soon discussion and all its numerous topics forfeited their consequence. Germane chit-chat replaced it, and a hesitant, lukewarm quiet fell over the room. It was neither comfortable nor unpleasant—simply bearable, like the burdens of nobility.

So you welcomed the quiet and busied yourself with eating—with forcing down what breakfast you could manage to bring yourself to chew. Somewhere along the line of conversation, you'd lost your appetite. It had slipped right through your fingers—vanished in the folds of talk of weddings and engagements.

You felt hollow and stiff: a being of cool stone and hard metal—not tender flesh and firm bone. And the mask felt harsh—like two hands clamped around your mouth, forcing your jaws closed. You couldn't eat—you didn't want to swallow or chew or even taste any of the pieces of food decorating your plate.

But going hungry was unusual—suspicious, even. You couldn't choose not to eat—you shouldn't. Not when there was so much to choose from—when you had no defensible cause or reason not to eat.

Chew and swallow. Chew and swallow and smile. Everything will be alright. This is destiny—this is the gods' plan.

Accept it. You were born for this.

"May I be excused?" The inquiry was abrupt—unexpected. It gave you and your family pause—had your hands freezing just above your plates, ready to grab another bite of food.

Didi was who had spoken—was from whom the question had come. Her voice had been so sharp and sudden—so cutting, like a plate shattering in a quiet room—but still somehow muffled and quiet. Perhaps because she was looking down at her plate—staring at the food that laid there like it sat instead in the palms of the gods.

"Pardon?" Confusion laced your father's tone. Thick, cloudy confusion, as though he'd never heard Didi speak before—had never thought his youngest child would desire to excuse herself from breakfast.

You watched as Didi slowly raised her head and fixed her gaze upon your father. The look in her eyes was scalding—angry and yet still blisteringly fearful. Her spine was straight and shoulders set, but when you glanced at her hands, you caught them shaking—trembling like a flickering flame.

"I'd like to be excused," Didi repeated. She didn't blink; she didn't flinch, and her voice was hot and biting, but her hands still shook, and the fork caught between her fingers trembled.

"Didi—" you started quietly—warily. Now wasn't the time.

But when was it ever? She didn't want to marry Lord Nirman—to meet him or ever entertain the idea of being engaged to him. So why should she have to swallow her anger and fear of it?

Why couldn't she be honest?

Why couldn't she be happy?

"Whatever for?" your mother asked. Her voice was sharp and even and killed the pacifying words that had settled on your tongue. She was eyeing Didi, and the irritation that had temporarily subsided at your father's request came trickling back into her stony eyes. Her gaze fled briefly to Didi's plate—to her hands, shaking so obviously. "You haven't finished your breakfast, and your lessons aren't for another hour."

Didi set down her fork and brought her shaking hands down to her lap, and then she swallowed, and you watched her press her lips into the shape of a firm, discontent frown. "I'm full," she replied slowly. Her tone was low—a growl, forced out through her teeth.

"But, Dadya, you've hardly touched your food," your father began. He sounded surprised—shocked that his daughter would choose to go hungry.

But the same could not be said for your mother.

"And?" Your mother's eyes were narrowed, but something warm—something that wasn't angry or irritated or spiteful—flashed briefly across her face. "You can stay and talk, can't you?"

Didi's frown soured, and she replied quite sharply, "I'd rather not."

"What?" Havel piped up suddenly. His eyes had settled on Didi, but he didn't hear or see her sharpness—or perhaps he had and was attempting to dull it. There was a lightness to his tone—a sense of fun amusement. A joke—he was joking, or at least attempting to. "Have you somewhere better to be?"

But Didi wasn't amused, and when she spoke, her words were like fire—thoughtless and damaging. "Anywhere would be better than here."

Her words were like a slap—a splash of cold water—and now you were soaked to the bone—dripping with shock and hurt and fear. But she didn't mean it; she was scared and angry. Of course she didn't mean it.

Prey will bite and claw when it is cornered, and ladies will scream and tear.

But your mother's eyes were narrowing—thinning to two dangerous slits. The ice was already thin; she didn't need much more weight to snap. "You watch what you say, young lady." The fire was back in her voice, and her words were like venom—dripping with hot, scalding acid. "I am not in the mood to play foolish games, and I will not tolerate any further disrespect." She'd placed her silverware down, and now her hands were in her lap and her eyes were like two knives—thin and sharp and pointed at Didi. "You _will_ spend breakfast in the company of your family, and you will _not_ complain. _Ladies_ do not complain like whiny _brats_; you are a lady and you _will _act like one."

Abruptly, Didi stood. The sound of the legs of her chair scraping across the floor as she moved was loud and sudden, and then she took and slammed her hands down on the table with enough force to cause the plates and silverware to shake. "Do ladies wed fat pigs too then, huh?" Her voice had risen, and now she was almost screaming—yelling so furiously that her face had started to turn red. "Are they such awful burdens on their parents that they have to be married off to horrible strangers they've never met before?"

Your mother's eyes widened for a second and then quickly grew terribly narrow again. She spoke quickly and hotly, and her voice lowered by a dangerous octave. "Watch your tone, girl—"

"I will watch _nothing_!" Didi interrupted her. Her shoulders were rising and falling, and she breathed as though she had been moments away from drowning. Something horrible burned in her eyes—something horrible and thick and angry. Something like hatred. "You sit there with your talk of nobility and manners, and you ruin your daughters' lives—marry them off to terrible men because you fear their power—and no one rises to stop you." She paused—took a quick, sharp breath. "Well, not this time—not with me." Then she leaned forward and stared your mother dead in the eye, and her voice lowered to a sharp, indoor tone. "_I_ will choose what man I marry, and I _will_ be excused from this awful table and your horrendous company."

Your mother's eyes were unusually wide—shocked by Didi's sharp words—and when she spoke her voice was oddly thin and uneven, like she had come off-balance and was struggling to right herself. It was strange, seeing her come undone in such a manner—frightening, almost. "D-Dadya Nelle-Mira Daefell, sit—sit down right this _instant_—"

But Didi ignored her, turned, and moved toward the doors with such alacrity that the guards standing there had no time to open them for her, though considering the queen's obvious desire for her youngest child to remain with the family for breakfast, they likely wouldn't have reached for the door handles even if given the time to properly react. Didi opened the door herself and slipped out of the room, and you and the rest of your family were left watching her leave, shock in varying degrees plastered across your faces.

Silence filled the room. No one spoke; not a sound left your lips—not even a breath, exhaled or taken in.

Didi had just argued with Mother—the _queen_.

How stupid.

_How brave._

How had she managed the audacity to talk back to your _mother_?

Perhaps you had underestimated her stubbornness.

Or maybe you'd overestimated her intelligence.

The silence seemed to stretch on for years—decades, tense and pressing—and then Tealai's soft voice cut through the air.

"I wonder what's made her so upset." She was looking around at the table—all the people seated there, staring at the door with wide eyes and raised brows. Her doe-eyed gaze fell on your brother, and she touched him gently on the arm. "Have you any idea, Havey?"

Havel blinked, startled out of his unusual silence by his wife. He looked at her, and then at your mother, who's wide eyes were settling back into their usual shape, and a slow, uneasy grimace crawled across his lips. "It's probably nothing, honey," he replied quietly, clearing his throat as though the noise would cover the sound of his voice. He brought his gaze to his plate and grabbed for his silverware. "Girlish hysteria, perhaps. I wouldn't mind it."

Tealai stared at him and blinked owlishly. "Oh. Alright." Her eyes fled to her plate, but then a frown settled on her pink lips. "I suppose we should just leave her alone, then."

"I'll deal with her in a moment," your mother finally said. Her voice was tight and thin, and after a pause and a sigh, it grew more even and conversational. "She couldn't have picked a worse time."

Your father looked at her, and there was deep concern in his eyes. "You don't suppose there was any truth to her words, do you, dear?" He didn't turn his head, but you saw his eyes move—caught them flicker to where you sat, fork still in hand. And then he tried to laugh—tried to force an awkward, grating chuckle. "Though I'm sure there isn't."

_But you don't suppose we'll have another attempted elopement scare, do you?_

You swallowed—did your best to hide the clenching of your teeth.

"There won't be after I've dealt with her." Your mother spoke matter-of-factly, and you watched as she set her silverware down and then brought her napkin to her face to dab at her lips. "But that'll have to wait." She set the napkin down on the table and looked up at you. "Come along, [Name]. We've business to tend to."

You took a breath and set your fork down. "Yes, Mother," you replied, and a servant came to pull your chair back for you as you stood up from the table. You followed your mother to the door, and your footsteps sounded painfully loud in the quiet that strangled the room.

The guards at the door opened it for you and your mother, and Isil came to join you as you headed out of the dining hall. He made sure not to walk too close to you and instead followed at a polite distance, but then when the doors closed behind the three of you, your mother stopped and turned to him.

The usual hardness was present in her eyes, but now there was also a coldness—a sharp wariness that you'd yet to see in her face.

"I'm certain that we have no need for your protection today, Sir Isil," your mother said to him. She had her hands clasped in front of her, and her voice was as stern as the lines of her face, but you thought for a moment that you saw something warm in the planes—something like concern. "I think it would be a better use of your time if you were to head after Princess Dadya, to ensure that she doesn't do anything foolish in her anger."

Isil was quiet at first. He looked at the queen, and then glanced at you, as if to ask you for permission to do as your mother said.

Without hesitating, you gave him a quick little nod and then let your gaze fall. You stared at your feet—at your shoes, nice and expensive.

You needed to talk to Didi.

"Of course, my queen," you heard Isil say in reply. When he spoke his voice was even—respectfully flat—and then he bowed and turned to head off to find Didi.

Your mother didn't watch him leave but started walking again immediately after Isil had turned away, and you hurried after her.

Neither of you spoke while you walked, and the silence was tense, like a cord just moments away from snapping.

Eventually—though the silence made the journey seem like it took much longer than it truly must have—you both reached the room where you would be meeting with Ambassador Nivai. You saw no signs of the foreign ambassador there in the hallway, but when the guards opened the doors to the room, you caught sight of him seated by an end table, whereby two other plush chairs had been pulled up.

He was fiddling with something in his hands, but when you and your mother entered he immediately looked up, pocketed whatever was in his palms, and moved to stand. "Ah, Queen Mirabell and Princess [Name] of Alaimore." He acknowledged you both, his sharp eyes settling on neither your mother's nor your face for a moment too long. The glances were almost offhand—dismissive, as though neither you nor your mother were worth more than a quick look over. He didn't even offer a true bow—just a simple nod of his head in your direction. "I suppose I'm glad to finally make your acquaintance."

Your mother narrowed her eyes at Nivai's words, and the line of her mouth grew thin and tight. "The feeling is mutual, Ambassador Nivai." She moved to the two free chairs placed near the ambassador, and you padded quietly after her, your gaze low but your head high. "To be honest, Ambassador, I'm a little surprised to find you waiting here." She went to sit down, and Nivai and you did the same. "Considering your actions at dinner last night and breakfast this morning, I was of the mind that you would be opting not to come to _this _meeting, either."

Despite your mother's edged tone, Ambassador Nivai's cruel eyes met your mother's without flinching. "I'm aware in what manner my actions could potentially be perceived, Your Majesty, but I believe it a gross misinterpretation of my character to assume I bore any intentional ill-will." Nivai brought his hands together and raised one eyebrow, almost in challenge. "I take my job—and mission—very seriously, dear queen." His eyes fled briefly to you, but your careful gaze had moved to your mother. "That is why I came here so quickly after waking: to ensure your impression of me wouldn't be totally misconstrued. I hope that I have succeeded."

Your mother's eyes narrowed, and your eyes fell briefly to her hands, which she'd folded in her lap. "So do I, Ambassador Nivai."

"Then I'm ecstatic to find us both on the same page." The ambassador shifted in his seat, though not uncomfortably. His face was flat and his tone even, but you noted that there was something of an edge to his voice—a distaste he always seemed to possess while in conversation with you. "Perhaps we can manage to finish with these wedding preparations earlier than I'd assumed."

"Have you a _need _to finalize these details early?" your mother asked rather abruptly. Your gaze immediately fled to her face, and you saw that something like a frown was settling in the line of her lips. It was both polite and disgruntled—lady-like and distasteful. "Have you some other interest more pressing than the preparations for the union of your king and future queen?"

"I would never be so bold as to ever _entertain_ such a claim, Your Majesty," Ambassador Nivai quipped without missing a beat. He watched your mother carefully, and his lips twitched briefly. "Though I do have some personal worries to attend to in the near future, I would be quite loath to place them above this meeting."

Your mother's eyes narrowed imperceptibly, but before she could let slip any more sharp, passively biting words, you swallowed your silence and raised your head.

"Perhaps we should begin discussing the wedding arrangements," you proposed calmly—softly—from the side. At the sound of your voice, both your mother and the ambassador glanced over at you. When Nivai's gaze met yours, his eyes narrowed calculatingly, and something like mild surprise flashed briefly across your mother's face. "So as not to waste any more precious time."

The ambassador frowned. "I believe we _were _readying to do such." His voice took on a sharper edge as he spoke, but then he looked back at the queen and the edge grew duller. "But yes, the earlier we begin the earlier we finish." He sat up a little straighter in his seat, but then a thought came to him, and he paused. "And, well, I suppose now is as good a time as any, but I do hope that you know that I am not intending to truly finalize these arrangements with you. King Orelus himself is planning on returning to give all the preparations one final look-over."

The queen stared at him—looked back unflinchingly into his calculating eyes. Her gaze was guarded, but some confusion managed to slip past her mask and danced briefly across her face. "Pardon?"

"Were you not already aware of this?" The corner of the ambassador's mouth twitched upward into something like a smug half-smile—prideful delight at having unbalanced the queen's polite mask. "King Orelus always has the final say on all agreements concerning himself and his kingdom. But I'm sure this comes at no surprise." He settled back into his chair, and when he spoke there was a certain arrogance to his tone. "A king always has the final word in all his arrangements."

Something like irritation flashed briefly in your mother's eyes, and you saw her jaw clench as she fought to swallow her immediate frustration. "Of course he does."


	16. HIS LULL

_(another special that does not follow the plot chronologically. just Orelus's POV when he first met the princess. feel free to skip.)_

* * *

** ii. the conqueror **

**victor**  
// his flesh is calloused. his bones are hard. he is relentless—he is determined, but growing tired is the black muscle that used to be a heart. it desires pause. it desires calm.

* * *

**_The motherland was mighty and glorious_**—a paragon unmatched; a creature of familiarity and wonder unique and total. Before all else she came, and on the grandest pedestal in the hearts of her sons and daughters was she placed. There could be no land greater than her, nor a foreign kingdom that could stand to challenge her.

Why else would young men die for her? For what other cause would fathers risk their lives for her safety, or mothers sacrifice their sons for her gain?

She was familiarity: kin in blood and spirit; she was family and friend, and unity and comfort.

She was home.

And it was for the motherland and her people that the Great King Orelus had fought and killed. For them, he would've gladly sacrificed his life—his dreams and desires. His people and his country were his everything, and to them he gave all that he had. The motherland's safety—her health—was what he'd lamented for. A desire to see her and her people whole and happy was why he'd fought so ruthlessly—so _dishonorably_.

Everything he'd done—the battles and killing and war—was for them. Always for them—for Ceorid.

Or so his allies liked to believe.

But perhaps the Great King Orelus _had _only ever possessed the Ceorid Kingdom's best interests at heart. Maybe he was a selfless patriot: an altruistic man whose only and greatest love was his country.

Or perhaps he wasn't.

Perhaps he was a selfish man—had always _been_ a selfish man. A man who'd fought for himself; a man who'd fought to survive—whose hands were stained with blood red and dirty and spilled in the pursuit of flawed justice. Perhaps he'd killed so as not to die, or maybe he'd killed so as to gain what he'd always desired.

Maybe he wasn't great, or even good. Maybe he was a monster, selfish and cruel, who'd disguised his savage desires beneath a gilded guise of noble patriotism.

Or so his enemies chose to suppose.

But never mind the manner of his intent; his actions had gained him a throne and a kingdom, and if the nations to which he'd sent his ambassadors possessed daughters worthy of a crown, they would soon secure him a queen.

And now the great king stood in the castle of Alaimore, countrymen and foreigners with him, and the scent of the foliage of the foreign king's garden in his lungs. He was back in Alaimore, with her great trees and bright sun. Alaimore, where the colors of war came in the shapes of cursed blades and worn nooses, and when an enemy was felled in combat, his ally gathered his honor and rose to challenge the killer.

Alaimore, where he'd been prisoner—where he'd denied a man his honor. Alaimore, where he'd reatreated.

Alaimore, his enemy.

But now, her king desired a treaty—an alliance. Her king—King Johan III—was weary of the fighting—the war.

Weren't they all?

They shared such a crucial desire, Orelus and he: they both wanted peace, for their kingdom and people. Shouldn't this be reason enough to lay down their arms?

But no—only a fool would suppose such. A simple commonality was never enough—had never been enough. Desiring peace for one's kingdom did not make a king equal to his enemy if he should suffer a heavier loss in continuing the fight.

The gods knew just how much King Johan III of Alaimore had to lose should the war carry on, but King Orelus could surmise as much, and here, in the actual presence of the king of Alaimore, he supposed he'd assumed correctly.

"But the lilies actually came from, uh—from Kourin." King Johan spoke tentatively—hesitantly, as though he were unsure of the words falling from his lips. He'd taken them to the garden—offered a short, impromptu tour of the castle in an effort to keep what little interest Orelus had offered during treaty talks alive—and now he was rambling—prattling on and on about the various species of plant occupying his garden, as though Orelus could care where and when the king's willows had been planted.

"Lilies that grow in Kourin are especially lovely—or so I've heard! Yes—so I've, um, heard," King Johan continued. His eyes were wide and shiny, like the blades Orelus's men had had to leave in the hands of Johan III's men at the door to the castle, and though the king of Alaimore kept his lips pulled up into a tight, polite smile, he blinked far too quickly and frequently to truly be at any sort of ease. "I've never actually been there, to tell you good fellows the truth. But I've heard it's a lovely place."

Orelus's eyes were narrowed, and the shape of his mouth was pulled into an annoyed frown. He hadn't bothered to feign amicability—had never truly learned how to force a pleasant smile in lieu of a nasty snarl as noblemen did. But he hadn't any need to, here. He had no reason to bargain or beg or put forth an agreeable mask. Such was the function of his ambassadors, though perhaps, in this instance, Deddmun had acted more in King Johan's favor than in his own king's.

Ambassador Nivai Deddmun had argued for Alaimore—had wasted so much breath in attempting to convince Orelus to pay such an insignificant kingdom a visit. And his efforts certainly hadn't been in vain. He could make for quite a convincing argument when he so desired, and Orelus could risk believing the ambassador's verbose debate and flowery language when he so chose.

But any and all of Deddmun's earlier reasonings fell flat now that Orelus was here, standing in front of a king devoid of any presence or backbone.

Deddmun had played him like a fool.

But why was he surprised? He knew Deddmun—knew his type. Deddmun had always possessed a capacity for such petty baseness. He was a shallow man—a bitter man, the kind that dug their heels into the defenseless spines and soft bellies of the lowborn.

Orelus had once served such men—had once severed the necks of such men, because to simply despise them in quiet was to be generous, and men who walked upon the backs of their fellows did not deserve generosity.

"I visited Kourin once, when I was a boy," his advisor piped up eagerly. He was always eager—always ready to impress his superiors, to say exactly what the higher born wanted to hear. Too eager. "It was quite the sight. Beautiful forests and land." The advisor was smiling, but Orelus doubted that the grin decorating Hulveddon's lips was one feigned out of politeness. He was too soft for deceit—for the ability to smile around bared teeth. "One of the many jewels of our great king and kingdom, to be sure."

Something warm—pleased—flickered briefly in King Johan's eyes. Hulveddon had responded just as the king had hoped he would.

But Hulveddon was not the king of Ceorid.

"It was," Orelus began slowly, "very beautiful, indeed." He looked at the king of Alaimore as he spoke—stared unflinchingly into the man's wide, shining eyes. His gaze was sharp and pointed, and out of the corner of his eye, he spared Deddmun a short glance. "But it's mostly ash, now." His tone was flat and unamused, and the look in his dark eyes was harsh and grating. "The earth was scorched during a battle; I don't believe a lily has grown there in quite some time—if anything has."

There was a paleness now to King Johan's cheeks, gathering in his weathered skin like water in a pool. "O-Oh," the king of Alaimore started. He swallowed, and his mouth fell open and closed as he struggled to rectify his blunder. "How—how unfortunate."

"In-Indeed!" Hulveddon added, nodding his head furiously. His voice was high and wheezing—a dull blade pressing against soft flesh. "A terrible misfortune, I do agree. A horrible penalty of war. How awful for the people there, to be robbed of their good land."

Before Orelus had the chance to respond, King Johan spoke up again. "A-Anyway, I think we've had quite the fill of nature and flowers and such." The paleness had not faded from the king's cheeks, and when he spoke his voice wavered. He looked away from Orelus—broke contact with the dark, unfriendly eyes that watched him. "The sight here is growing stale. Why don't we move on, hmn?"

The king of Alaimore began to move back toward the entrance to the garden, his steps hasty and immediate, but King Orelus didn't follow as he had before. He narrowed his eyes, and the bitter ire that had seeped into his voice crawled back into his mouth and face.

"Actually, I think it time that my companions and I depart," the king of Ceorid replied. King Johan paused at the sound of Orelus's voice, but the king of Ceorid was looking at Deddmun—shooting him a glance as dark as his cold eyes. "You've been incredibly generous, my friend, but we've taken up enough of your time as it is. Besides, I've some pressing business to tend to in Hosha."

Something like dread filled King Johan's eyes at Orelus's words, and he blinked furiously as the paleness in his cheeks spread to the rest of his face. "I—I see." He spoke even more hesitantly than before, as though every letter were a struggle—every sound a horrible battle of will. "W-Well, in that case—"

"Your Majesty, perhaps you could spare a moment or two in the company of the princess before departing?" Deddmun started, cutting the foreign king off.

The ambassador was looking at Orelus, now—meeting his king's cold, unamused glare with his own. Deddmun didn't flinch or waver or cower; he stared back at Orelus with flat, guarded eyes, but for a moment Orelus thought he saw something flicker in Deddmun's gaze—fear, or anger. Respect for his king—for the man that had given back to him what the war had taken—and disgust for the commoner upon his throne—for the man who bastardized the title of king with his lowly blood.

"And for what reason should I desire to meet the princess?" King Orelus didn't break eye contact with Deddmun; he stared back, his eyes hard and his brows furrowed. But the sound of challenge was seeping into his voice. It was familiar—the tone. It was the sound of metal clashing—of bones crushed beneath iron boots. A familiar sound; a tiring sound.

"If Your Majesty were to meet the princess, he would know," Deddmun replied sharply. His eyes were like knives, but Orelus had been cut by sharper blades.

For a brief moment, they simply glared at each other—stared down the face of what they abhorred. The face of a man who had been forced to drag himself out of the misery the gods had tried to drown him in; a man who understood despair—who had spent so long crawling in the mud that he had forgotten the color of the sky.

A man who despised the hand that fed him.

But something kept them civil. Something had Deddmun lowering his gaze—made him look to the men in armor standing off to the side.

Perhaps it was respect, or understanding. Or fear.

Orelus thought he knew, but even if he was certain, he wouldn't know what to call it. He didn't have the words—the vocabulary. Perhaps he never would.

The written word had always escaped him—had never been within his grasp.

"Well, since you make for such a convincing argument," Orelus began somewhat bitingly, looking back to the king of Alaimore. There was always some sort of truth hidden in Deddmun's lies—some validity to his petty tricks. "I suppose we can spare another moment or two."

"I'm glad that Your Majesty agrees," Deddmun replied. His voice was even and flat, but his eyes were focused on the foreign king. "Would my lord kindly send for his daughter?"

The king of Alaimore began nodding the moment Orelus's words had reached his ears, and the eagerness that jumped into his eyes was almost the same as that which often decorated Advisor Hulveddon's face. "Of course—of course!" He ran his tongue over his lips and spared one of his guards a glance. "I'll have a servant send for her at once."

Then King Johan beckoned the guard over, and Hulveddon opened his mouth and began rambling about something trivial and appeasing, but Orelus wasn't listening. His gaze had fled to Deddmun, who stood just as noblemen did, with his spine straight and head held as high as his neck would allow him.

How difficult it was now, to imagine him hunched over a greasy slab of wood, the skin of his cheeks blistered and peeling from the sun. How impossible, to know that the hands he folded in front of him, covered as they were by gloves fashioned out of fabric as fine as silk, had once been bare and calloused and weathered.

How strange, to think that a body so noble and proud had once known the shape of commonness.

But perhaps not as strange as a body that couldn't forget.

When King Johan returned to the conversation, he began speaking. Mostly of his daughter, boasting about her, as though Orelus cared to listen to the bias of a father whose intent was to marry his daughter off. Though he didn't fail to notice that Hulveddon fell silent when the king of Alaimore began speaking, and that the latter possessed a voice that didn't grind away so terribly at Orelus's thinning patience.

But then the king of Alaimore's gaze fled from the faces of his guests, and a mixture of recognition and colorful delight brightened his aging countenance. "Oh, [Name]! There you are."

[Name]. That was the name of King Johan's daughter, wasn't it?

Orelus turned to see the person the king of Alaimore had called out to, and his companions did the same. His gaze fled to a young woman standing close to the entrance of the king of Alaimore's garden, and he watched as she approached them, the features of her face growing clearer as she drew near.

She wore a smile, warm and inviting, and a deep pleasantness danced in her eyes. It gave them a brightness—a kindness that Orelus didn't often see in the gazes of noblemen and women.

Most had not the kindness to spare, but offered fear in abundance.

"My good fellows, this is my daughter—Princess [Name]." King Johan smiled as he introduced his kind-eyed daughter, but the grin was tight and pale—eager, but fearful.

Orelus knew the shape of terror; well-acquainted was he with its color and sound. As a child, fear had been his shadow—his shield and sword. It had been the clothes with which he covered himself—the faces of the men and women who'd tried to silence the beating of his heart.

Fear was the mold from which he had been cast; he could feel it still, lingering in his bones like a bad memory.

_The scent of incense, curling around his throat. The blade, hovering above his chest._

_Monster. They were here to kill the monster, before he became a terrible scourge, as the gods had foretold._

Fear had made him, but soon he would be rid of it—of the shadow that clung to his bones.

He just needed the woman—the one the boy dreamt of.

The woman with the silver tongue.

"Well, she is quite lovely, isn't she?" Hulveddon looked to Orelus, his lips already pulled into the shape of an amicable smile. "Don't you agree, my liege?"

Orelus's gaze had fled briefly from the princess's face, but now he gave her another glance—a quick look-over, so brief and cursory that he'd absorbed little of her features, if any. But he could note that she was pretty—as pretty as any noblewoman, he supposed—though the design of her face mattered little to him. The boy had never been able to recall or discern the face of the woman with the silver tongue.

All the boy could ever remember was her voice. Her voice and the shape of the great serpent, curled around her—bound to her, the boy said, for she was promised to him.

Well, what were promises made for but to be broken?

"She looks as well as she should." He spoke honestly—bluntly, for he cared not to learn how to soften his words as noblemen did. They knew how to sweeten their voice—how to cushion their tone and embellish their replies. "No different from the others." His gaze fled to his ambassador, whose pinched brow had begun to flatten and relax. How unwise of him, to attempt to find calm when there was none to be had. "Why did you bother our kind friend to send for her, Deddmun?"

But King Johan spoke up before Deddmun could reply. "Oh, it wasn't any bother—"

"I thought Your Majesty might like to see her—face to face," Deddmun replied quickly, cutting the king of Alaimore off once again. He met Orelus's gaze, and now a look of calculation—of scrutiny—burned in his sharp green eyes. "Your Majesty wouldn't design to marry a woman he's never met, would he?"

A simple question, innocuous but somehow pointed.

How did Deddmun manage it? How was he so capable at speaking in such deceitful tones?

"Ambassador Nivai!" Hulveddon suddenly gasped. The advisor's high voice was now little more than ice picks, digging painfully at Orelus's temples. "Curb your tongue, good fellow. It's so terribly insulting to assume to know what the great king thinks—"

"Your attempt to take offense for me is noted, Hulveddon." The annoyance that had been slowly crawling up Orelus's spine now took hold of his tongue, and his gaze fled from his nettling advisor to Deddmun and then to the king of Alaimore, whose eyes were paling and wide. It was a familiar look, fearful and drawn.

It was the face of a coward.

The frown decorating Orelus's lips grew heavy and hard, and then he said, "Now kindly go entertain a conversation with the guards, will you? You'll be called for again when your opinion is desired."

At first, there was silence—quiet, as Hulveddon registered his great king's words—and then Orelus heard him clear his throat.

"O-Of course, Your Majesty." Hulveddon's voice had grown quieter, but his wheezing tone still ran like sandpaper over the back of Orelus's head. "I apologize if I've been a burden to you. Please don't hesitate to call for me."

And then the balding advisor scurried off to bother the guards, and Orelus took a soft, slow breath. The thorn was gone from his side; the thought of breathing no longer caused any pain.

He brought his attention to King Johan, but his gaze passed briefly over the king's daughter. She was silent and watchful—a wonderful product of noble breeding. She didn't speak—wouldn't speak until spoken to, just as she had been raised.

She must've been an exemplary student.

Or perhaps she was mute, and then she would be flawed—a deceitful paragon.

The most perfect symbol of nobility.

But Orelus had enough archetypes lining his court.

"You may send your daughter off to entertain some other fancy, King Johan." Orelus's eyes fled momentarily to Deddmun, and the bitterness that had settled at the bottom of his stomach began to rise again. He'd thought too highly of Deddmun—overestimated the man's capacity for honesty. "We've seen her face. We haven't any more use for her presence."

Something gray rose to color the king of Alaimore's face, but he was quick to assent—quick to please his mighty guest. "Yes—of course, King Orelus." He turned to his daughter, whose kind eyes now fell on her fearful father. "You're free to go now, [Name]. I thank you for heeding my call on such short notice—"

"Forgive me if I offend, but I think you're being rather hasty, Your Majesty." The sound of Deddmun's sharp voice prickled Orelus's skin—gave the bitterness in his throat a warm, edged taste. He watched the ambassador—saw how his gaze lingered on the princess, as though they shared some method of silent communication. "The princess has more to offer than just a pretty face."

"I-Indeed!" the king of Alaimore chimed in hastily. He latched on to Deddmun's words—clung to them like a child clinging to his mother's hand, pleading desperately for her to stay. "Princess [Name], my daughter," he added quickly, as though Orelus had forgotten, "she's—she's quite good at languages, and instruments! Oh, she can play the harpsichord so very well. And dance—she's very good at dancing, too. Blessed, the augurs used to say. She used to dance holes in her shoes, you know. Not that she was a disobedient child—oh, no, quite the opposite, in fact! She was always quite well-behaved. Quite well-behaved. A perfect child, really."

King Johan's words nearly bled together into a long mess of poorly veiled desperation. As it was, Orelus hardly understood—or cared to understand—the man's unfair compliments.

Of course the king of Alaimore would speak only positively of his daughter. Of course he would try to paint her in such a golden, auspicious light.

But he was more fool than coward to assume Orelus would believe him.

"I don't mean to insult you, King Johan," Orelus began slowly, his dark eyes fixing themselves upon the foreign king's face, "but I'm afraid I don't understand the importance of such frivolous talents." He didn't narrow his eyes—didn't eye the king of Alaimore as he did other purposefully dishonest noblemen. "When I need to communicate with rulers who speak another tongue, I send an ambassador. I don't care much for music, but if I did I'd hire a musician. And I don't dance often, so I have little use for a partner who does."

The grayness in King Johan's face bled into his wide eyes, and Orelus watched him waver—observed with waning patience as he tried to gather whatever was left of his composure. "Y-Yes, but...but..."

"She has quite the wit about her," Deddmun added when King Johan fell silent. He spoke persuasively—colorfully. "And isn't that quite the necessity for a queen, Your Majesty? Not just so that you might entertain engaging with her in intellectual pursuits as a friend, but also so that she doesn't act foolishly and cast your mighty kingdom to ruins?"

King Orelus's gaze fled to the ambassador, and the man paused, but when he spoke again, his tone was cool and honest. "There have been queens before who've ruined such mighty kings as Your Majesty—emperors, too."

Deddmun met his gaze—stared back at him with sharp, knowing eyes.

The Queen. She wanted him dead—had always desired his head. But the woman with the silver tongue—she was their flaw.

And he could make her their executioner.

Had the king's daughter spoken yet?

_But she couldn't be..._

His eyes moved—fell on the woman who stood so obediently beside her father. "If the princess is so witty—as my dear ambassador claims—why has she been so quiet all this time?" His dark eyes were watchful and wary—suspicious, as he'd learned to be. He had waited for so long. Couldn't he spare just a second more? "Has a cat got her tongue?"

At first, the princess was quiet. Her kind eyes stared back into his own, but he saw something move behind the affectionate curtain—a thought, sharp and edged.

The truth the nobility sought so fervently to hide.

And then she spoke. "No—she left it outside, with the guards. She's never had use for it around such men as you, Your Majesty."

The smile still lingered on her lips, as kind and pleasant as the mask of her eyes—as the shape of her face. But her voice—her voice was in his ears. It was a memory—a color, pale and precious. The sound that fell from her lips was as warm as a fire that didn't burn, and the flames of it blanketed his skin like fabric.

Her voice was gold, and her tongue—

She was silver.

For a moment, words failed him. For a moment, he couldn't believe she was real.

The boy—the boy's visions—

_He'd proven the witch wrong._

And then the shock faded, and something warm and delightfully golden filled his head and bled into his skin. It was a familiar feeling—an old emotion, forgotten and abandoned and buried beneath a lifetime of blood and ash.

"And why's that, I wonder?" He stepped closer to her, eyed her in the new light cast by the sound of her silver voice. She was the willow tree's little songbird—her gift and promise. But in his hands, she would bring about their downfall. "Why would she be so unkind as to deprive us of the delight of such a lovely voice?"

The woman didn't back down or bow her head despite how close Orelus had made himself. Instead, she met his gaze without flinching, and her pleasant lips kept their warm shape. "Habit, likely."

A laugh almost escaped him—a chuckle, breathy and relieved. How long he had waited to meet her—to finally have the peace he had been so cruelly denied. "A nasty habit." He could've married her then. He'd waited long enough for a taste of paradise—of the contentment the gods denied him. "Perhaps she could learn to break it?"

But with her in his possession, the Queen would stand no longer above him—none of them would. They would suffer their destiny, and they would fall.

Just as it was foretold.


	17. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

** xiv. the knight and the daughter **

**scapegoat**  
// she has accused him of a terrible crime, and she has tried him. she has judged him guilty for the faults of the gods, but the punishment she awarded him pales in comparison to that which he already bears.

* * *

**_There was a time when Isil could claim _**to know the designs of his princess's youngest sister. Princess Dadya was predictable, then: stubborn and loudmouthed but still bright enough to know when to toe the lines the queen drew in the sand.

She'd twittered like a bird, and her voice had been loud and harsh and immature—so brazen and bold, like a hungry, ruthless fire. She'd fought with him like a child; she'd whined and begged for his attention—sought after it as though it were a treasure, precious and rare. But her stubbornness had known bounds, and her heart had kept to its place. She had never bared such sharp teeth—had never grown any with which to snarl—but now she was biting hands and fingers and flesh, sinking fresh fangs into skin and drawing blood as red as her finest velvet dress. And the blood stained; it pressed into the space behind the heart and sunk its savage color into the flesh of the tongue, and the taste it left in his mouth was sour and bitter and dark.

It was a familiar taste—a haunting taste. It brought to mind terrible memories—terrible promises, to gods and men. To a father, poor and broken and hopeful. Painfully hopeful.

Isil stepped along faster. He moved with alacrity—with a desperate speed, hurrying along through the halls as though it was his soul he chased and not a spoiled princess too pigheaded to know when to keep her loud mouth shut.

She would suffer for her mistake—for infringing upon the queen's authority as she had.

Isil knew what came of princesses who went against the queen's wishes, and he didn't need to bear witness to what became of another's hopeless desires. He didn't need to know how the stubborn and loyal and honest Princess Dadya would grow once the queen had trimmed her—had curtailed her unsavory behavior and distasteful dreams. He didn't need to know if she would cry—if her smiles would fade or if her eyes would grow dull and careful and distant.

He didn't want to know.

He never had.

Isil came upon the door to Princess Dadya's chambers, and his footsteps echoed in a hallway unusually empty. The guard that should've been standing outside the door to the princess's room was missing, and the desolate hallway languished his absence—his blatant, infuriating incompetence.

A fiery sensation, dim-colored and hot, flared to life in the space just beneath Isil's collarbone. He felt the heat move to buzz in the pads of his fingers and hum in the roots of his teeth, and its taste mixed with the bitterness that already coated his tongue.

Whoever had thought it proper to abandon their duties to the crown while a stranger took residence in the castle would soon come to regret their myopic rationale. That, Isil would gladly ascertain.

There was no excuse for ineptitude.

The sound of his knuckles rapping against the princess's chamber door echoed hollowly in his ears—empty, like the hallway he stood in. The buzzing in his teeth stuttered, and the heat dancing atop the tip of his tongue retreated to the back of his throat to mingle with the thoughts rattling in his chest.

"Princess Dadya," Isil began. The hum of his voice was dull when he spoke; the taste in his mouth had begun to sour, and the bitterness crept into the glare he fixed upon the door. "Kindly open the door."

A pause. Silence, growing to meet him, pooling into the empty hallway like dirty water, brown and murky. It sloshed against the bottom of the door and lapped at his shoes, eagerly pressing and pulling at everything and nothing.

Had the princess not heard him?

"Princess Dadya," he moved closer to the door and rapped his knuckles harder against it, "this is Sir Isil. Open the door." His voice grew louder—harsher—and the heat lurking in the back of his throat began to pace, stepping along with an ever-growing speed. "Your Highness, the queen sent me; please open the door."

No sounds slunk out from behind the carved wood, and in the absence of noise, the dirty water began to rise.

What game did she think she was playing? Did she suppose it humorous to ignore him—to deafen her ears to his appeals?

"If you refuse to grant me access, Your Highness, I'll be forced to open the door myself."

He waited then for sound—for a young voice, high and biting—but none pressed out from behind the door. The dirty water pushed and pulled, and he grabbed for the door handle, the bitterness in his voice swelling like a river, but the knob did not turn under his grip. It stood firm and unmoving—locked from the inside.

The bitterness flashed a hot red, and he frowned at the taste. Did Princess Dadya think a locked door would stop the queen—would slow the arrival of her certain punishment?

She should know better.

Isil shook the doorknob—rattled it around like he might loosen the latch—and then he began, in a voice that was sharper and louder than the noise in his chest, "_Princess Dadya_—"

The click of the latch sliding free of its cage had just pierced the haze of his bitter thoughts when the door suddenly swung open. A sliver—it was all the view he was given—but it was more than enough to cut his words short, and his voice shorter.

The dirty water stilled; Princess Dadya stared at him from behind her door. Her eyes were at first wide—like a child's, staring in pale surprise—but then they narrowed like the sliver of space between her door and its frame. "Sir Isil." His name fell from her lips like it was a curse—a foul word, souring her lips. Her voice was barbed, like the thorns of a rose. But there was no flower on this stem. "What are you doing here, rattling my door like a robber?"

Half of her was hidden, but the door did not muffle the venom of her tongue like it did her body. The bitterness of her tone recalled the fervor of his own, and the weight of his frown soured.

"Thrice I called for you," he began sharply, his gaze moving briefly to the room hiding behind her—the vanity and wardrobe the door nearly obscured from his view, "yet you did not once answer."

Her glare did not waver at his words, but when she caught his gaze wandering, something flickered in the light of her eyes—fear, or something paler. "I was occupied," she replied firmly. She moved until his line of sight was obscured by her face, and his gaze met her narrowed eyes. "What is it you want?"

She spoke harshly, and her glare burned, but not nearly as awfully as the fire in his throat. The bitterness sharpened his eyes, and he saw how she moved—how she kept her arm behind the door, and her own self in the space between it and its frame, as though she meant to minimize his view of her room, to hide something with her body alone.

What desires could she hope to keep secret? What unmentionable wants did a princess with sharp teeth and foolish determination have to hide?

His eyes narrowed, and a familiar bitterness seeped into the flesh of his tongue. Upon what hope had Princess Dadya sharpened her teeth? "I was sent to ensure your well-being," he replied, his frown souring to a bitter glower. "The man that was supposed to be guarding your door is missing, Your Highness." He moved closer to the door, shifted his foot until the toe of his boot sat just inside her room. "Such alarming negligence cannot go unpunished. Have you an idea as to the identity of the man who was supposed to be guarding your room tonight?"

The line of Princess Dadya's mouth thinned, and the door inched forward. The room behind her disappeared further, but Isil did not move to stop her. "Can you not figure that out for yourself?" she replied hotly. "Why bother me?"

She was moving away from him, slinking back into the comfort of her room like a shadow. Her voice was firm, but a paleness had crept into her eyes, and it brightened the fire of her gaze.

"I hoped you might know," Isil began sharply, the bitterness in the back of his throat fleeing to the tip of his tongue, "but I suppose most servants are indistinguishable to the noble born's eye."

A sharp emotion flashed across Princess Dadya's face, dulling for a moment the paleness in her eyes. "You would know, wouldn't you?"

Immediately, the bitterness in Isil's mouth soured to a hard venom, but then he heard a bump—a firm smacking sound, like something falling. It came from within Princess Dadya's chambers, and at the sound, the paleness in the princess's eyes began to creep into her face.

Isil's gaze flickered to the chamber she tried to hide and then fled back to her. Suspicion sharpened his frown, and he crept forward, but the bitterness had begun to ebb from his tone, fading despite her sharp retort. Princess Dadya's room had been left unguarded, but he knew not for how long. "What was that?"

Princess Dadya did not hesitate, but her firm tone wavered, bowing under the weight of a pale fear. "Pardon?"

"There was a sound." Isil moved closer, and now the greater part of his leg had wedged itself between her door and its frame. Something heavy, like concern, chewed away at his bitterness—his venomous suspicion. Her safety was what he should have first worried for; his bitterness had sharpened a selfish suspicion. "It could have been a thief." He peered over her head, into the dim confines of her chamber.

But it was morning outside. Why had she pulled the curtains shut?

He pressed forward, but Princess Dadya did not budge from her place. "It's nothing," she replied, but her words were hasty, unconvincing, and pale. "Something—a brush, likely—fell off my vanity, that's all."

Isil brought his hand to the door and pressed lightly—tentatively—back upon it. "There is still a chance it might not have been," he argued, slipping his foot into the room.

"What are you doing?" At the sight of his boot, Princess Dadya abruptly pressed back hard against the door, and Isil nearly stumbled backward at her sudden show of strength. Her voice had begun to rise, growing into a shrill, panicked call. "Get out!"

Isil ignored her screams and stood his ground, but his concern had been muddied by a frustrated confusion, and despite his greater strength, the suddenness of her shove had caused him to lose some of his prior footing.

"Why are you..._fighting_ me?" he demanded with a grunt. Both his hands were now braced against the door, and he'd wedged his other foot into the room.

"No! Just get out—_get out_!" She pushed against the door, trying with all her might to force it close, but then Isil shoved harshly against her. She went stumbling back with a sharp cry, and the door she had been trying so hard to close flew open, brandishing the inner confines of her private chambers.

Isil had never desired to set foot in Princess Dadya's chambers before, but instead of allowing his eyes to soak in the novel environment, he set his sights instead upon the princess. She had fallen to the floor, her hair and attire mussed and askew as though he had fought her—had thrown her and abused her.

The heaviness of the guilt was immediate. He had not meant to push her so roughly, and out of habit, he immediately went to help her back to her feet. But then he saw something—a flash, in the corner of his vision—and he ducked instead of offering his hand to the princess.

His fingers wrapped about the hilt of his sword, and when he rose back to his full height, the blade of his sword gleamed proudly, free of its sheath. The movements had blended into one, like it was a habit—a second nature, sheathed in the leather of his first. Blood roared in his ears and pulsed in his veins, and the heat of a terrible but familiar fire pooled in his hands. His fingers tightened around the grip of his blade, and his eyes narrowed to dangerous, watchful slits. His gaze found the flash that had flickered in the corner of his eye, but the figure at the end of the room was who earned his narrowed glare. He saw the sword and the man, but they blended into one—one creature, dangerous and beastly.

He knew how to deal with threats. Such was his purpose.

His second nature was free, gleaming like wicked metal, and it began to advance, crawling up from his hands, into his chest and mind. It saw its enemy, the weakness in its stance. It knew how to disarm the danger, what directions to move—what swings to make.

And it lunged.

He feigned right, and the enemy moved to block him, its movements sure and firm, but then he went left, and it stumbled. He swung and nicked the enemy in the side, but then it tried to bring its sword around to catch him in the shoulder, and he shifted back, out of the reach of its blade.

He moved with a frightening speed, a terrifying sureness of his capabilities, like a man who had no fear of failure—of death or pain. A man whose abilities could not have been natural.

But they were a symptom of his nature.

And how its strength did grow, moving him, wrestling the enemy's sword free of its hands, bringing his own blade around to the figure's neck—to swing without stopping, through flesh and muscle and bone. But then he saw it—the insignia on the enemy's sword, gleaming in a shard of morning sunlight that had slipped past the curtains.

The symbol of the Daefell family.

The guard—this must be the guard who'd been missing from the hallway.

What was he doing here?

"Stop it! _Stop it_! You're going to kill him!" They were screams—shrill, screeching cries, ripped from the throat of a princess. They pierced the din in his head—the blood and the thoughts and the confusion that clouded his eyes, dirtied his vision.

He felt hands on his arm, trying to pull it—trying to push him away. So he let his hand fall, and he stepped back, and he blinked his eyes and tried to breathe—to _see_. See something other than danger—someone other than an enemy.

The guard he'd been fighting was on his knees, and there was a gash in his neck. Blood bubbled up from it, reddening the man's skin, and his face and hair were slick with sweat, but something familiar lay in the planes of his face.

And then Isil knew.

He was the guard from the shrine. The one who had forgotten to bow before his princess.

What was his name?

Alourli?

His hands felt hot, and there was a dark, blood-colored lump in the back of his throat, choking him—blocking his windpipe. The blood welling up from the gash in the man's neck matched that which dripped from the blade of Isil's sword. He could have killed the man.

He almost had.

But he'd thought he was an enemy, and the man could have been—could still be; a traitor, an intruder, or something worse—but Princess Dadya was kneeling beside him, trying to patch up the damage Isil had done. She must have known the guard was in her room—must have wanted him there—but why?

The familiar, dark bitterness came creeping back into the flesh of his tongue, mingling with the taste of horror and blood. For a moment, the guard's face wavered, and his terrified gray eyes flashed a playful, youthful green.

_"Come on, just one more? I think I'm getting better."_

Isil's stomach lurched, and a sour, bitter taste, like acid, spilled into his mouth. His fingers loosened their grip, and the sword fell from his grasp and clattered on the floor.

"_Shit_, I—" His voice sound sticky—rough, like the calluses of his hands—and when he tried to step forward, his movements felt robotic and wrong.

Princess Dadya glanced up when she heard him move, and the look in her eyes burned brighter than any of her earlier ire. Terror and hate, pale and barbed, spilled into the skin of her face, and she flinched back from him. "What's _wrong _with you?" she hissed, her voice still high and shrill. "You could have _killed_ him."

Isil tried to swallow, but in doing so almost choked on the blood-colored lump stuck in the back of his throat. "I thought he was an intruder—"

"He's a fucking _guard_," she cut him off sharply, her terrified eyes narrowing.

Isil flinched at the foul word that had left her lips. It sounded wrong, colored in the tone of her voice, curling off the tongue of a girl who had no business being anything but lady-like.

"He shouldn't have been in your room," he began, the heat in his hands beginning to fade.

"Neither should you!" she shrieked, her voice as pale as her eyes. Her gaze had returned to the guard beside her. She was trying to press something against the gash in the guard's neck—fabric, a dress or a blanket, perhaps—but her hands trembled.

Isil moved forward, his hands stretched to help her, but when he moved, her head whipped back around, and she hissed, "Don't you _dare_." The barbed hate brightening her eyes chewed away at her terror, and as she spoke her voice lowered and became sharper—harder. "My father's wrong. You're no hero. You're a monster—a fraud." Her words were venomous. She was biting at him—snapping with those sharp teeth she'd grown. "A killer! You must be; you fought like one."

She glowered at him, and her words came faster—sharper. "My sister's too kind. She thought you were her friend, but you—you hate her—you must hate her. You must hate all of us—me, her, everyone." Her voice grew louder and louder, swelling into a vicious shout, and she began to stand, rising with the volume of her voice. "You caused her so much pain. She cried for months—_months_. And you just sat there. You sat there and you did _nothing_.

"You didn't even cry. You never cried, did you?" The words kept falling from her lips, dirty and hateful. They mingled with the murky water rising up from the floor—the water he had thought had been left in the hallway. "I bet I know why." Her eyes were narrowed, and he saw her sharp teeth. They peeked out from under her lips, pointed and gleaming like wolf teeth. "_You_ killed him, didn't you? I bet you did. You killed that man—Adalleth. It was all you, wasn't it? _Wasn't it_?"

Silence, blanketing the room, but far removed from his head. There her final words echoed—her judgement, passed and final and cruel, painting him in the wicked image she had created. Is that what her eyes saw when they looked upon him? A murderer? A traitor?

A man so vile and disturbed he'd killed his best friend?

The surface of the dirty water shook, and the blood-colored lump in the back of his throat melted into the shape of a spike, sharp and dark and glistening.

"You have no right to speak of that which you know nothing," he began slowly, his voice low and hard. The tremble was gone from his tone, and the guilt had faded from his eyes. Who did she think she was, accusing him so? "How dare you speak like you know me—like you know what happened that day." He stared down at her, glared at her like she had eyed him. But there was no hate in his eyes, only fury—only disgust that she would think so low of him. "Did you promise a father you would deliver his son? That you would keep him safe from harm, even at the cost of your own life?

"Did you watch a heartless tyrant—a disgusting monster who calls himself man—the very man your _beloved sister_ is now forced to marry—plunge his sword into the heart of the son you swore to protect—the man you loved like he was your own brother? Did you watch the life fade from his eyes? Did you hold him as he died, wishing—wanting beyond all _reason_ to switch places with him? To die in his stead?

"Did you carry his body home to his father? Did you watch this man—this strong, good man, whom you have never seen cry, never seen weaken or bend beneath hardship—_shake_ with _sobs _when you handed him the body of his only child?" His voice like a roar—like thunder, booming in the room, shaking the walls. "Because I did. So don't you _dare_ speak as though you know—as though you _understand_, because you do not. You _cannot_.

"You do not know me, Princess. You do not know my despair—my guilt or my hate. The nightmare that is _my_ reality." His voice had lowered to a hiss, as dark and bitter as the blood on his tongue. "And if you think me a monster for that, then be glad, for you have not yet seen true brutality."

Something dark and uncertain had crept across Princess Dadya's face, but she stared firmly back at Isil, unmoved by his fervent speech. Her eyes still burned with a terrible hate, bright and horrible, but then a noise—the sound of a fresh set of footsteps—grabbed both their gazes.

The door to Princess Dadya's chambers had been left ajar, and a familiar figure stood in the doorway, a look of concern decorating their face.

Princess [Name].

"Is everything alright?" she asked, her gaze flitting from Isil to her sister and back again.

"[Nickname]!" Princess Dadya exclaimed. Her glare began to lessen, weakened by the comfort of her sister. "Thank the gods you're here! Alourli's bleeding and I—"

"Someone's bleeding?" Princess [Name] interrupted, alarm flashing briefly in her eyes. She moved into the room, her steps quick and sure. "What happened?"

"Isil attacked him," Princess Dadya replied quickly.

"_What_?"

Isil saw the younger princess shoot him a scathing glare, but he ignored the burn of her ire. "I thought he was an intruder," he replied curtly, turning to his princess.

Isil heard Dadya scoff at his words, but Princess [Name] only nodded her head, a frown resting on her lips. "We should take him to the augurs," she said, gently touching the blanket Dadya had pressed to the guard's neck, "they're well-versed in medicine."

Princess Dadya nodded immediately, eager to have reason to leave. "Okay. I'll do that—"

But [Name] shook her head, and continued, "No. You need to stay here. Mother's busy with Ambassador Nivai at the moment, but she'll...she'll want to have a word with you when she's done."

"And?" Princess Dadya's gaze immediately narrowed at the mention of the queen, and Isil watched her hands curl into fists as angry as the light in her eyes. "I'm not going to just sit down and take whatever _garbage _falls from that witch's lips. Not anymore." A hardness seeped into Dadya's voice, firm and unyielding, like stone. "I'm running away." She stared at her sister, and the look in her eyes was serious and somber. "Alourli and I are leaving today," she glanced at the guard's neck, and a frown pulled at her lips, but the hardness—the somberness—did not leave her face, "after the augurs heal him, of course."

Silence met Princess Dadya's words at first; Isil kept himself quiet. He'd said all he'd cared to say; he'd already seen one elopement scheme fail and burn, he needn't meddle with another. But he did not excuse himself into the hall, instead, he stayed and watched—waited to see what his princess thought.

Hers was the only opinion that mattered, and if she wished to aid her sister, then he supposed he could be persuaded to lift a finger.

But only for her.

Because, otherwise, he didn't care for Princess Dadya or her bleeding guard. Not anymore.

She was too sharp, now—too cruel and foolish and stubborn to care for.

"I—Didi, you can't," Princess [Name] replied finally. She spoke softly but surely, comfortingly. "Not tonight. There's too much happening. The guards are on alert because of Nivai, and Mother's probably expecting you to do something...drastic." [Name] brought her hand to Dadya's and curled her fingers around her sister's fist. "Do you even have a plan?"

"Well, I," Dadya began, but her words were disjointed and uncertain, "we were—we were going to—to—"

A sigh fell from Princess [Name]'s lips, and she gave her sister's hand a soft squeeze. "Plans are best made when you're calm," she murmured, a knowing look settling in her eyes. "I know you're upset, Didi, and I know you want to leave—to be with Alourli—but you must _wait_. Wait until the time is right. Trust me." She leaned toward her sister, her tone earnest and almost pleading. "I only want to help you."

Princess Dadya stared back at her sister, uncertainty dimming her gaze, but Isil saw Alourli's hand move to hold hers, and he gave her fingers a comforting squeeze. Princess Dadya let slip a soft breath, and she closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them once more. When she spoke, her voice was soft, so different from the shrill cry that had called Isil a monster.

"Okay."


	18. CHAPTER FIFTEEN

** xv. the princess and the duchess **

**sage**  
// her eyes are warm, but her gaze is jaded. her steps are sure, but her feet are rooted to the earth. lost to her is the path to the stars, but she has no need for them here, on the ground.

* * *

**_Idryla and her two children had arrived yesterday_,** just as her letter had foretold. The sky had heralded her advent in robes of sapphire and cotton, and the sun had celebrated with a bright fervor ten times as brilliant as any man-made fire.

The joy had been immediate: a warm-colored embrace, soft and yet firm, and greetings fraught with inquiries that spilled out from hearts too light to be kept bound to so tight and cramped a chest. Delight had been strong and unyielding, and even your mother, whose face was still colored by the bitterness of two weeks past, could not fight the pull of a bright and satisfied smile.

Yet time had been no ally to the soft and the welcoming, and before bellies starved of physical affection could have been properly filled, the night had devoured the day and conquered the sky. But now day had come again, and the sitting room was awash in the sun's warm, inviting colors—flush with all the pleasantries of sympathetic daylight. The scent of tea hung in the air and wound itself about yours and Idryla's bodies, and your beloved mask sat on the table at your side, just beside your brimming cup. Well within reach, just as it should be when not decorating your lips—cupping your cheeks and brightening your eyes.

The taste of hot tea coated the flesh of your tongue and dripped from the skin of your teeth, and the heat spread into your lips and softened the curve of your mouth until the corners of a soft smile pressed at the bottoms of your eyes. But behind the warmth lurked a cold thought—a dark worry, coiling and uncoiling on itself, waiting patiently in the shadows just out of the sun's reach.

"Mmn."

The hum fell, soft and delighted, from your sister's lips, and your eyes moved to find hers. Though she'd lifted her cup to her mouth, you could still spy the corners of her smile—the edges of her lips, pressing up into the apples of her cheeks. A warm satisfaction had softened the planes of her familiar face, but her eyes were closed, blind to your peering gaze.

"Hmn?" you prompted her lightly. Sunlight flooded the room in soft lines of pale yellow and gold, warming your hands and cheeks and casting an inviting glow upon your sister's face.

When her eyes opened, they did so slowly—languidly, as though it took all the effort in the world to pry her eyelids apart—but then her gaze found yours, and whatever frown impatience could have forged crumbled beneath the familiar weight of her stare.

"Alaimoran tea—how I've missed it." She spoke slowly, and when she lowered the cup from her lips, her thoughts curled clear and warm off her tongue. "Imports simply aren't the same." Her movements were graceful, delicate, and after setting the cup down upon the porcelain saucer nearest her, a short, soft sigh fell from her lips. "Their taste is always much too sour."

You inclined your head, and a question rose to your smiling lips. "Why did you never write of such longing, Lia?" you inquired lightly, your gaze never straying from hers. "I would have had some sent to you."

"Tea is such an insignificant worry, dear; the thought had never crossed my mind." Idryla brought her hands to her lap and folded them there neatly, her movements as refined and noble as her blood; she sat with dignity and poise, and every breath that fell from her lips was one of grace and elegance. "But now one does." She leaned forward then in her seat, the edges of her smile moving to press at the corners of her eyes. "Marriage!"

When your sister had first begun her reply, you had grabbed hold of your cup to draw from it another sip, but now the hard brim sat still against your lips, and the taste swimming in your mouth soured. The cold thought lingering in the recesses of your mind reared suddenly at the light and gave the bitterness stealing into your gums the strength to grab at your lips. You felt the corners of your mouth fall into the beginnings of an unpleasant curl, and your attention fled immediately to the mask you had so carefully set aside. It sat upon the table, just beside the saucer; you could see it there, placed so carefully, so deliberately—smiling softly up at you without worry or care.

If you could grab it—

If you could only bring it into your possession—

But your hands were already full: your fingers clung desperately to the shape of your teacup—clutched it as though it were a precious jewel—and to your lips, they kept it stubbornly pressed. They did not conform to the command of your mind, nor did they bow to its cries. They stood silent and still, like the stone fingers of a statue.

The line of your mouth bucked against the terrible pull, but the bitterness had spread into the skin of your face, and soon your smile was falling—faltering under the hand of an unpleasant pressure. "Oh," you tried to hide your frown behind the brim of your cup, but the sour taste permeating the flesh of your tongue seeped into your voice and colored your words a bitter amber, "yes. Of course."

Almost at once, you saw Idryla's eyes sharpen at your tone—caught her familiar gaze narrow into a shape with which you were well-acquainted. Yet you kept your cup held to your lips, pressed it stubbornly there despite what little shelter it offered.

"What _apathy_," she began lightly. Her smile had fallen in the light of a graceful surprise, but with such a brightness had come a familiar shadow, and its darker hues now pooled in her eyes. "You once _leaped_ at such a prospect, and now you reply, '_Of course_'?" She leaned back into her seat as though your words were some physical force capable of moving her, and her gaze flew up and down you, scanning you like you were some exotic beast. "Whatever happened to you, [Nickname]?"

A coldness began to drip down your spine, spreading like a frost out from the thought nestled in the back of your head. Words leaped to your tongue, ideas and thoughts and reasons so bright they nearly blinded you, but then you recalled to whom you spoke, and such arguments were quickly stripped of their vain strength.

"I—" you started, but just as the sounds slipped past your lips, you felt a terrible tremor begin to tiptoe its way up your arm. With a sharp breath, you managed to bring the cup down and away from your lips before Idryla could catch your shaking hands, but your fingers still refused to disentangle themselves from it. So you placed it down, just above your lap, where it could squirm and shake all it wanted. "Well this wedding, it's—it's not quite what I imagined it would be."

Idryla's eyes stilled, and her gaze settled upon your face. "It often isn't," she replied. When she spoke, her tone was light and her words airy, but the shadow in her eyes was much too heavy to be humorous, and something almost bitter flashed in her pupils. "But that's no reason to think poorly of your wedding—your marriage. Fantasies can be quite deceitful."

You tried to nod, to accept the words that poured from your sister's lips, but your head was as frozen as your fingers, and when you opened your mouth to agree, a deviant thought leaped to the tip of your tongue. "I know, Lia, and I don't. I simply... Well, the man I'm to wed isn't one to whom I would have ever imagined being given."

A somber frown came to rest on Idryla's lips, and, slowly, she began to nod her head. "Well...yes. Yes, the news of this..._match_ came as quite a surprise to me, as well." Idryla's gaze moved to her cup, and she brought her hand to it. "Honestly, I had thought—or, rather, _hoped_—that you would have already been married by now." With her finger, she traced the brim of her cup, and when her finger reached the handle, her eyes moved back to yours, and she tried for a smile. "Not to a king, perhaps, but a lord or a duke. A knight, even, but I...suppose the gods have _other _plans."

_Already wed?_

_To a knight?_

The look lasted perhaps a second—a flicker of a moment, there and gone in the blink of an eye—but Idryla saw it. You knew she had. When it flashed in your gaze, brief and ephemeral though it was, her own had quickly snagged upon it. Curiosity had narrowed her eyes further, and the shadow that had first crossed her face now sharpened. She took her cup in her hands, but even as she lifted the brim to her lips, her gaze did not once stray from your face.

"That isn't to say that this marriage now isn't better than any _I_ could have devised, or that I think it deserving of any less respect or gratitude," she continued, her lips conforming to the shape of a comforting and almost amused smile. "But I did think my lovely sister's hand would have been wanted for by _some_ suitors, at the very least."

The coldness oozing down your back pooled into the flesh of your fingertips, and though your head still refused to turn, your eyes could move, and to the table sitting beside you they briefly shifted. Upon the lacquered surface your mask still sat, basking in the warmth of a light that had long since fled from your form. You could take it, now. You could try once more to uncurl your fingers from your cup, to finally silence the trembling of your forearms.

You could nod along with your sister, agree that yes, it was indeed odd that you had been graced with no suitors or proposals. Then change the topic: talk instead of the wedding, who to invite—what decorations to ready; leave behind conversation of grooms and suitors.

Talk with her as though she were Mother; talk with her as you did when Adalleth was sent away.

A breath, soft and long, fell from your lips, and slowly, carefully, you set your cup down upon its saucer and uncurled your fingers from it. Then, though your fingers stretched desperately for something to grab, you moved your empty hands back to your lap and fixed your eyes upon your sister's face. The memory came quicker to your tongue than it should have, than you would have liked, but perhaps the desire to speak of it at all was cause enough for concern.

"Actually, Lia..." you began carefully, your voice soft, "there was...there was _one _man."

Idryla's hands stilled, and you saw her eyes widen some at your words, but then she freed her arms of their spell and brought her cup down from her lips. "Who?"

Your gaze nearly fled to the door, but just as it was beginning to shift it suddenly stilled. "A knight," you replied, and then, despite what claws the thought that next left your lips dug into the flesh of your heart, you added, "I'm afraid I don't recall his name, but I believe he and Sir Isil knew each other."

Idryla set her cup down. Her eyes never left yours, and her stare was now as intense as a fire. "And this knight, he asked for your hand?"

"He...told me he would, yes."

"He told _you_?"

"Yes." You nodded your head and tried to swallow the bitter saliva that was gathering in your mouth. "We'd grown rather...close. He wanted to...to know my thoughts."

Idryla had leaned forward in her chair, and in her eyes a fierce curiosity burned, but behind the flames you glimpsed flickers of the shadow that had earlier darkened her gaze—a worry as thick as blood. "And you disagreed?"

"_Not_ with the...proposal," you started quickly. Your words fell from your lips with an urgency not unlike that of an excuse, and you nearly flinched at your own haste, at the thoughts that flew from your tongue. "It was his...wording—his _timing_ that deterred me."

"And what about his timing was so poor?" Idryla had settled back into her seat, and her hands she'd folded neatly in her lap. The look in her eyes was somber—sympathetic, even.

Your gaze wandered once more to the table, but your mouth moved faster than your mind, and before you could ponder reaching for your mask, your reply had already curled off your tongue. "He proposed to me his plans not long after I'd learned of Father's desire to wed me to King Orelus, Lia. What else could I have told him?"

Idryla watched you carefully, and the light streaming in through the windows cast a golden glow upon her face. "Well... Your knight's sense for timing certainly isn't..._enviable_," Idryla nodded her head, but the somber look in her eyes didn't fade, "but if you think so poorly of King Orelus, surely you could have had Sir Isil act on your knight's behalf and move to persuade Father to rescind his plans?"

A pause. Idryla's gaze did not shift from yours, and you tried to swallow, to gather time for your mind to string together an excuse, a believable lie, but found your mouth suddenly dry.

"I—but Lia, I—I _couldn't_," you replied, leaning toward her. Your tone was high and earnest, vehement, as though passion alone might convince her. "Father's mind was already decided—"

"Father's mind is never decided," Idryla interrupted you, her voice suddenly cutting—biting through your own, "and you know he most certainly would have repealed his plans at the haste of a man of Sir Isil's standing." Idryla began to lean toward you, and when she next spoke, her words were quick and heavy. "You _could _have married this knight, [Name]. You could have accepted his proposal and wed him and then we wouldn't be sitting here planning your wedding as though it were your _funeral_—"

"But then Didi would have—" you started hastily, but the words that had leaped to your tongue suddenly fled, chased off by realization, by the look in Idryla's eyes.

"Didi?" Idryla echoed. A sudden understanding washed over her face. You saw it pass, smoothing her features like a hand across fabric. Her eyes, made wide by the sound of your sister's name, narrowed, but now the light that danced in them was as bright as frustration. "You're marrying King Orelus because of _Dadya_?"

You felt your hands begin to shake, tremble from the cold that was pooling in your skin, and you curled your fingers until the nails pressed into the flesh of your palms, until they had sunk deep enough to leave a mark. "Father _was_ determined to offer one of us, Lia," you replied quietly—lowly. "I was simply the elder of his alternatives."

"And what an alternative this is," Idryla snapped. Her voice was sharp with the same frustration that brightened her gaze, and it colored her words in hot, boiling shades of red. "Dadya is grown now, [Name]. You can't keep treating her as though she were still a child. You are doing her a disservice, indulging her so."

"But how do you suppose I treat her, Idryla?" you inquired. Your words were unintentionally sharp, and the cold that was biting into your bones stole briefly into your voice. "Do you wish that I had cast her to the wolves? Should it be _her_ funeral that we plan today?"

"I wish nothing of the sort!" Idryla's voice rose to a sudden and sharp pitch, but then just as quickly as it had risen, it fell. A thought flashed across her face, and her eyes fled from your own. You watched them settle upon her hands, folded so quaintly in her lap, and though the frustration coloring her face did not crumble, the light in her gaze shifted in intensity—paled until it was dim and somber. "I merely worry—for you, for her."

Idryla paused, and a heavy, pressing silence briefly came to blanket the room. You watched her—could not tear your eyes from her figure, sat so quietly just before you. Then her gaze lifted to meet yours once more, and there, lying in her eyes, you saw the waves of an emotion as deep and boundless as the sea.

"You cannot protect Dadya from all the evils of the world; you cannot always shoulder her struggles by casting aside your joys. We are all burdened by hardships in life, and you are not helping her by hiding her from them," Idryla continued lowly. She spoke quietly, as though her words were a prayer, or a secret, and in her eyes, something like pity, or melancholy, swam. "So you have saved her from marriage to one beast, but what of the others to come? Who will take upon the burden then?"

A response grabbed at your tongue and pressed stubbornly at the backs of your teeth, but you kept your mouth shut and swallowed it. Such replies had no place in this space; such words should never grace your elder sister's ears.

But still, despite such knowledge, an uncertainty began to press at the base of your skull—an unpleasant doubt, digging at your flesh and bone.

Didi was safe and well for the now, but what of the future? What good had your decision wrought?

What had you lost? What had been gained?

But it _wasn't _your decision—it was the gods'.

Wasn't it?

Wasn't this your destiny?

Idryla shook her head, and a sigh, long and winding, fell from her lips. "To love is to sacrifice, but wisely so." Idryla moved her arm, and you felt her skin, her hand, moving to cover yours. "I fear you give away too much of yourself, [Nickname]. If you aren't careful, you'll waste away for hollow endeavors."

Your gaze fell, and for a moment your hands and Idryla's was all you could see. Her fingers were familiar: long and thin, perfect for the harpsichord. You remembered clutching them as a child, grabbing them when you were frightened, when you were in need of protection—of a guide.

Her embrace had been a shelter, her hands a ward.

What were they now?

Something hot pressed at the backs of your eyes and burned your throat, but a breath and a sigh swallowed it, and when you lifted your gaze to meet Idryla's, you peered at her from behind the shelter of a feigned smile. The mask clung strangely to your skin here, in the presence of your sister, but perhaps time would change that, too.

"Well, there's...there's little that can be done, now," you replied, your lips curling into the shape of a joking smile. You swallowed what was left of your sharpness, your disagreement. In the air the remains of your argument still hung, like particles of dust, floating in the sunlight, but with talk and smiles, they too would soon fade. "Why don't we forego talk of marriage for now, hmn? Tell me, how are Alnade and Seila?"

The look in Idryla's eyes didn't fade—the pity, the concern—and you felt her give your hand comforting a squeeze before settling back in her chair. "They're fine. Tealai is entertaining them right now; she all but leaped at the opportunity to look after them while we talked."

"Really?" you asked, your voice light. Every word that curled off your tongue pushed the unpleasant remnants hanging in the air further and further away, and you watched them disappear, watched them fade into the golden sunlight.

"Yes," Idryla replied. "She spoils them—adores them like they were her own." Warmth had begun to seep back into her voice, and she almost smiled. "Sometimes I wonder if she forgets they aren't."

You moved to grab your cup and brought its brim to your lips. Your tea had grown cold, but you swallowed a sip despite the taste. "I don't doubt that she would."


	19. CHAPTER SIXTEEN

** xvi. the king **

**guest**  
// appearances are delicate things, and their upkeep is a chore. he was never taught the task, but he has learned how to hold them; he has learned how to lie through bared teeth.

* * *

**_There lingered no kindness in Alaimore’s pale sky_, **no safety—no familiarity hidden in the shape of its clouds or warmed by the light of its watchful sun. No comfort waiting in the shadows of its great trees. Here, sympathy knew no name—too strange it was to have ever gained one—and no allies heeded comfort’s call, its plea or petition.

Yet it was here that King Orelus found himself—had come once more of his own accord. Here, in the midst of Alaimoran men, men who had rallied themselves into the shape of an enemy, men who had sided with a prince whose greed had urged him to grab at the throats of his brothers.

Men who now desired an accord, who now hurried to shake the hand of the king who had killed the very man they had rallied to defend.

Conciliatory men.

Cowardly men.

For they were cowards. Pitiful, sniveling curs too spineless to finish a war that had never been theirs to fight—a war into which they’d held no issue inserting themselves, so long as it was the victors for whom they fought. But they had aligned themselves incorrectly, and now they didn’t even have the courage—the _decency_—to die with the honor of their oath—to die for a war they had chosen to wage.

Where was their courage? Where was that determination—that blind, furious bravery Orelus had, for the most fleeting of moments, glimpsed in the eyes of that young Alaimoran soldier?

Where was their fortitude?

But perhaps he shouldn’t question such a lack of valor—of any inkling of bravery. It came at no cost to him that the Alaimoran highborn were cowardly rats—wretched weaklings who fled at the first sign of danger, of defeat. Better it was that they were so pusillanimous, for now they tried at every opportunity to appease him—to hand to him precisely what he’d been searching so desperately for.

The woman with the silver tongue—she would soon be his, for unto him, the king of Alaimore would most gladly give her.

“Well, there you are.” The king of Alaimore spoke slowly, tentatively, as though the air in the room was made of glass—was so weak and brittle that even a misplaced breath might shatter it. He lingered behind his desk, hovered like an annoying thought—a nettling worry too faint to draw into focus but too firm to cast aside. “That is the—um—the version your ambassador preferred most.”

King Johan III watched Orelus carefully as he spoke; Orelus felt his stare—his pale, wide eyes, pressing down on his guest’s face, skittering between the king of Ceorid’s hands and head. The man’s gaze moved with an erratic haste, like the eyes of a deer, or perhaps a rabbit—a frightened, cowering thing. Searching for a path to safety—desperately hunting for some means with which to escape the jaws of the approaching hounds.

How pitiful—how terrible, the bite of hunting dogs.

But Orelus did not raise his head to help—did not offer a look or a glance to wash away the sickly color pooling in the lines of the foreign king’s face. Cowards deserved their fear; perhaps if they were allowed to wallow in it as readily as they should, one day they might grow tired of its taste—might grow so comfortable in its presence that it would form them into a creature worth fearing.

Orelus kept his eyes fixed upon his hands—settled upon the document King Johan had earlier handed him. The dark ink of a scribe’s careful, flowing writing decorated the long parchment from top to bottom, embellishing the vellum with a manner of loops and lines difficult to decipher. The penmanship was not one Orelus recognized—some Alaimoran man must’ve written it—but even if the draft had been written by Deddmun, it likely would’ve been just as illegible.

The written word was a tricky, fickle thing. To understand a sentence as it curled off a man’s tongue did not entail comprehension when reading that same thought, and the latter was infinitely more troublesome to grasp. The young learned to speak for language was mankind’s nature, but it was only at society’s demand that they determined to read and write.

Without moving to even attempt to offer the document any scrutiny beyond the cursory lookover he gave upon first receiving it, Orelus handed the parchment off to Hulveddon, who, for once, had thankfully made no attempt at polite, nettling discourse and had instead waited rather quietly beside him. The advisor took the document post-haste and offered only a quiet, “Thank you, my liege,” before moving to scan the writing for any dubious or worrisome clauses.

Orelus’s eyes fled upward once the document was free of his grasp, and he moved to rest back against the seat King Johan had offered him when he’d arrived. A warmth was pooling in his chest and dripping down his throat like sweet golden honey, and into his lungs he felt it spread, bleeding sugary satisfaction into flesh torn and blackened by fear, and hardened and strengthened by determination—by desire too stubborn to know defeat.

She would be his; she would bring him the serpent.

And finally—_finally_—the gods would be paid their due.

Now, it was but a matter of time.

When he looked up, his gaze caught upon King Johan’s pale and watchful eyes, but now something else had come to brighten the foreign king’s stare: surprise, or perhaps some lesser-known emotion akin to it.

“Do you…do you not wish to read it?” King Johan’s voice wavered when he spoke—trembled as though he was unsure precisely how to wield it. His wide eyes fled from Orelus to Hulveddon and back again, and when they returned to meet Orelus’s, he saw the uncertainty devouring the man’s pupils flash—burn with a sudden white-hot ferocity.

A sharp bitterness invaded Orelus’s mouth, and the frown that already sat upon his lips deepened at the sour taste infecting his tongue. “I’m afraid I’m still quite tired from my journey,” he began slowly, “and I may, when reading, let slip an unsavory detail or two.” His tone was flat—indifferent—but as he chewed his words, tasted and played with them with his teeth and tongue, a firmness invaded his voice. “But my advisor is quite awake, and he won’t be as careless as I.”

Some of the paleness spilling into the flesh of King Johan’s cheeks began to fade, and a faint, wavering curve—perhaps a poor attempt at a smile or a pained grimace—began to play at the man’s thin lips. “Ah, I—I see.” King Johan swallowed, and then a thought crossed his face, brightening his gray cheeks and shiny eyes. “If you’ve want for rest, friend, we can, ah, we cancontinue this tomorrow.” The man continued, and the line of his mouth grew firmer; it had indeed been a smile that had moved to curl his lips. “We’ve certainly the space to accommodate you and your men.”

Orelus’s mouth was moving before any thought could attempt to grab his tongue, and the bitterness that seeped from his gums stole into the skin of his teeth, bleeding into them so that it could color his words. “No,” he started. His voice was harsh and loud at first—a shout, a bark brimming with jagged, wolfish teeth—but then he paused, allowed for a short, cold breath to fill his hot lungs. “No. That won’t be necessary.”

King Johan’s eyelids fluttered at Orelus’s haste and volume, but his furious blinking could not hide the wet, gray unease that was pooling again in his eyes. He swallowed again, and the weak smile that struggled to curl his lips flickered. “Al—Alright.”

Silence followed the king of Alaimore’s reply. A heavy, tense silence so quiet and still that, for a moment, the air around them grew as cold and stiff as a pane of glass.

It was a weak thing—a trembling, fearful thing so delicate a careless thought could have shattered it. But Orelus did not break it—did not move to crush it despite how easy it would be to do so. Instead, he sat back and watched it—watched how it caught the light in its cool, fragile fingers. It played with the rays of sun like a child with his toy—tossed it around and lifted it up and down, and back and forth.

Like a boy he used to know.

Orelus could see the boy—could spy his shape, the ghostly, glittering outline of his body. He’d always been thin and small—scraggly, like a peasant child. A sickly little boy, too weak to ever become king—to ever stand as a threat to his brothers. A boy who should’ve died a boy.

Yet somehow, he had lived to be a man.

He would’ve been here, sitting before this spineless creature who called himself a king—marrying a woman who would strengthen his already legitimate claim to a unified throne. He would’ve been king—he _was _king.

But never of a unified Ceorid.

“My liege.” Hulveddon’s breathy voice shattered the glass—crushed the pale apparition and its gossamer memories. The particles cascaded to the floor, and Orelus watched them fall—could not tear his eyes from the fine, dusty ruins of the boy who had died a king.

But the air became air again, and the fragments of the boy’s shape faded, taken by the gentle wave of a shallow breath—a shuddering gasp, escaping the lips of a dying man.

Was it his?

Orelus’s eyes fled to his advisor, and for a moment, his voice failed him. “Yes?” He croaked out the word, spit it out on a breath nearly too broken to be called a sound—a voice.

If Hulveddon noticed the tremble, he made no move to acknowledge it. His eyes were narrowed, and at the document in his hands he squinted, his gaze moving back and forth across the writing he scrutinized. “There’s a knight mentioned here, Your Majesty,” the man began, his brow creasing. “A ‘Sir Isil Hilift’.” His eyes fled up from the parchment to meet Orelus’s gaze, and his stare was clouded by foggy confusion. “I’ve never seen a nobleman given as part of a dowry.”

Orelus hummed, and his gaze slid slowly to the foreign king who hovered close by, watching them with pale, shaking eyes. “Neither have I.” The trembling that had earlier invaded his voice had faded, and the words fell smooth and low from his lips, sharpened by the edges of his teeth.

King Johan’s eyes grew terribly wide, stopping only before they could swallow his face, devour it with their pale, fearful color, and when he spoke, his voice buckled and jumped, trembling like a terrified, cornered rabbit. “He—He isn’t!” he started hastily, his words tripping and falling over his tongue and teeth in their haste to escape his mouth. “I—I assure you good—good fellows: Sir Isil is…is not part of my daughter’s dowry.” King Johan swallowed, but Orelus doubted the man had gathered enough saliva to wet his throat. “He is a—a special case.”

The frown pulling at Orelus’s lips did not waver, and the bitterness that filled his mouth climbed up his throat and settled in his eyes. It was flat and disinterested—sour and gray—and his gaze narrowed beneath its weight.

“He’s a close friend—an incredibly l-loyal and steadfast ally,” King Johan continued hastily. His poor attempt at a smile had already faded, and now his lips were moving as though they had a mind of their own. “He’s been my daughter’s p-personal guard for three—three years now. He’s an—an irreplaceable c-companion to her and a good—a good man. Quite well-respected by—by nobles and c-commoners alike.” King Johan paused to breathe, but the noise sounded more like a wheeze than any exhale worth calling a breath. “If you’d like, I can—I can send for him.”

For a moment, Orelus merely watched the man, stared him down while he wheezed like he’d never breathed air before. Orelus’s eyes were narrowed, scrutinizing, and the taste in his mouth was sour enough to gag him, but then he settled back in his chair, and a long, deep breath raised his shoulders. “Then do,” he replied lowly. “If he’s as respectable as you claim him to be, I’d like to make his acquaintance.”

King Johan was eager to turn—eager to call forth and then send away the nearest servant, and once the man was gone, Orelus’s gaze returned to his advisor.

“Do you spy any other…strange terms?” he asked. His tone was even, and though no edge sharpened his words, in the corner of his eye, he still caught King Johan flinch.

Hulveddon scanned the document once more and then shook his head, his gaze moving to meet Orelus’s. “No, Your Majesty,” he replied. His voice was light, and the confusion that had darkened his face had begun to ebb, chewed away by a growing curiosity. “Ambassador Nivai was quite thorough.”

A hum warmed the back of Orelus’s mouth, and his eyes moved to settle on the space behind King Johan’s head. “Good.” A sigh, long and sweetened only by the thought of what would soon come, fell from Orelus’s lips. Just a little longer. “We’ll leave once this is sorted, then.”

“Of course, my liege,” Huveddon replied obediently. The shuffle of parchment followed the advisor’s words, and Orelus saw him lean forward in his chair in order to return the document in his hands to King Johan.

The silence that followed the advisor’s reply was not half as still the one before. No glass came to form from the air, and no phantoms of bygone days slunk out from the shadows to darken the daylight. The air stood as empty and hollow as it always did, and the quiet did little but blanket it—cover it in a soft, downy coat, the sort that was immediately discarded when a knock came to rattle the door.

Orelus saw King Johan’s gaze fly to the entrance, and for a moment, the grayness clouding the king of Alaimore’s face faded. “Let him in,” he said quickly—eagerly.

The servant standing by the door did not hesitate to follow the king’s command, and the man Johan had called for stepped into view. Orelus’s narrowed eyes fixed themselves upon the newcomer—the knight King Johan had spoken of so highly—and he looked the man up and down, scrutinized the knight as he himself had oft been examined. The man moved with a certain surety—a particular firmness, so confident he was in his stride and destination. He was strong-looking and young, but he didn’t appear especially virtuous: his build was that of any fighter’s, and no divine light dusted his face or gleamed in his eyes.

“You called for me, Your Majesty?” The knight’s gaze was locked upon that of King Johan’s, and though he spoke most calmly—most lightly—Orelus knew the sound of discomfort—the audible bite of displeasure. Yet this man’s unease was not that of King Johan’s; his eyes did not shake with fear—with cowardly terror as pale and biting as a blade.

“Yes.” King Johan nodded, and his head bobbed up and down as though it had come undone from his neck. “Our, ah, our friend and guest, King Orelus, wished to meet you.”

Sir Isil’s gaze fled to Orelus, and Orelus saw something cold and fiery flare briefly to light in the knight’s eyes. The look was short, but its gleam pulled at something in Orelus’s mind—grabbed at the memory of a day too valuable to risk forgetting.

The frown that sat upon the knight’s lips deepened, and his eyes narrowed into a glare not wholly friendly and yet just short of threatening. “Ah,” the man began slowly, “King Orelus.” He spit the name, bit it out like it was a foul, sour thing, but there was some restraint to his voice—Orelus could hear it pulling at the knight’s tongue, tugging back his more venomous words. “I had hoped to one day…meet Your Majesty.”

The memory pressed forward, and Orelus tilted his head and sat up in his chair. What a terrible nobleman this knight was, wearing his disgust so openly—so brazenly.

It was almost familiar.

Where had he seen it before?

“Then you must feel awfully lucky.” Orelus watched the knight carefully—examined his face, his eyes. He’d seen them before, gazed into similar gray irises—ones set ablaze by outrage and white-hot fury. “Or perhaps such gifts are commonplace for a man as virtuous as your king claims you to be.”

_Those eyes—those angry, hateful eyes._

The memory was on the tip of his tongue; he felt it brush the skin of his teeth.

_They’d gleamed like knives. Sharp, burning knives._

The knight’s frown did not waver, and something sour settled into the muscles of his face—pulled them into a look that was nearly a scowl. “I am but a humble servant to my king.”

Orelus’s eyes narrowed, but no bitterness seeped into his voice—no hardness came to sharpen his flat tone. “And his daughter.” Orelus saw something flash in the knight’s gaze—a thought, a worry so much kinder than the venom that now dripped from the man’s teeth. That, too, was strangely familiar. “Tell me, Sir Isil, what oath binds you to Princess [Name]? What forces a man as respectable and young as you to accompany her, to remain so affixed to her side?

“As a knight, your loyalty should remain with your king,” Orelus continued, his voice even and his gaze sharp. “So why does it appear to lie with this woman instead?”

Sir Isil’s frown wavered, and Orelus caught the man’s jaw tighten—clench beneath a tight, choking pressure. “I swore an oath to—to the gods that I would protect my king’s second eldest daughter,” he began. His voice was tight, and his words were hard, but in his tone, Orelus heard no lie—could sense no bitterness of falsehood. What a terrible nobleman indeed. “She is quite…quite devout, Your Majesty, and the gods, they are—they are quick to reward piety.”

Orelus blinked slowly, and a short, humorless chuckle fell flatly from his tongue. “They _can _be.” He gaze fell down the man and then slid just as quickly up, and a humorous thought began to play at his lips. Was this the best defense the gods could now offer? One angry, bitter knight?

But perhaps he shouldn’t be so harsh. He _had_ alreadydefeated the wielder of their grand sword—their greatest weapon against a threat as terrible as he.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that their backup plan was so lackluster.

“But why did the gods choose to form an oath with you?” Orelus continued. He sat up further in his seat, and his eyes didn’t leave the knight’s face. “What can you offer that any other guard, or man, cannot?”

“My swordsmanship, Your Majesty,” Sir Isil replied without missing a beat. Orelus saw the man’s right hand move immediately to his waist, his fingers clenching reflexively, but his sword was gone, and his fingers curled about empty air. “I’ve been told I’m quite good with a sword. Better, even, than my king’s best.”

Orelus saw it then—the memory, brought forth by realization’s warm hands and painting the knight’s face with the same phantom shadows that had colored the apparition of the boy in the glass. The Alaimoran soldier—the man whose eyes had burned with courageous fire, with blazing, furious bravery—was standing before him now.

He was this knight, this faulty nobleman, too honest to hide his true intentions—too furious to swallow his unfriendly venom. The imperfection in the breed; the runt of the litter.

“Oh?” The realization brought with it a darkling awareness, a shadowy consciousness sharp and edged. It dug into Orelus’s mind, buried itself there among all his other biting concerns.

The knight’s bitterness was not unlike Deddmun’s, but more dangerous, perhaps, for it was not as curtailed—as finely trimmed by the begrudging respect that tamed the ambassador’s. This was a man whose anger was kindling—a man whose rage, once sparked, was that of fire.

And he was a nobleman—one commoners and nobles alike respected, or so the king of Alaimore claimed. But such a declaration was not worth testing—not when it could risk bringing about more nettling or perhaps even devastating distractions.

This knight was a man favored by his king—a knight trusted even by the gods.

He was not a man to leave to his own devices—to besmirch and then cast away to places where his fury could be allowed to burn and grow.

“Well, then I’m eager to someday engage you in a friendly match, Sir Isil,” Orelus finished. His tone was not light, but the satisfaction that had earlier warmed his chest now moved to comfort the ache brought upon by such a sharp realization. If the knight wanted only to fulfill his oath to the gods—to protect the princess and her silver tongue—Orelus could allow his presence—could swallow any worry of assassination or treachery.

He could deal with those issues when they reared their unsightly heads, for they were but insignificant concerns in the light of his grander scheme.

Orelus’s gaze fled to the king of Alaimore, and instead of a smile, a sternness hardened the line of his frown. “You may consider this concern resolved, my friend.” Orelus stood up, and he heard Hulveddon hastily move to do the same. “This draft is quite satisfactory, and since I see it riddled with no other qualm, my advisor and I will now kindly take our leave.”

Relief flooded King Johan’s eyes, and Orelus saw it spill out into the man’s face—all of its pleasantly bright colors, washing over the king of Alaimore’s cheeks and brow. “Oh, how wonderful.” A long, deep breath of air left King Johan’s lips, as though he had been holding it for the entire meeting. “I’m glad you found it so acceptable.” Then, with a smile that was small and wavering but somehow incredibly bright, he added, “I shall have a servant escort you to your horses.”

Orelus nodded, and when his eyes fled from King Johan to fix upon the door, they caught for a brief, fleeting moment on Sir Isil’s face.

Something gleamed there, in the knight’s eyes, something sharp and dark and vicious. It shone like wolf teeth—like the tip of a wicked blade poking out of a dark sleeve. It was a thought, a promise—an oath, sworn in blood and paid with bones and flesh.

It was hateful—vengeful.

And awfully familiar.


	20. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

** xvii. the princess and the queen **

**bride**  
// they adorn her with jewels and clandestine hope. they clothe her in silks and rich, vibrant trust. in her, they invest their desperate wish, and through her, they realize their greatest desires.

* * *

**_The air was made of cloth_**—thick, heavy cloth, woolen and rough and as weighty as stone. It was cloth that stuck to the skin, that dragged at your arms and legs—pulled at them like a set of bulky iron chains. You heard them grind; you felt their weight: the hum buzzing deep within the metal as it scraped against the ground.

The sound followed you down the halls, trailed you like a servant, or a wolf—a hunter, stalking prey incapable of running. Prey with wings clipped and legs bound, set firmly upon a path far more honest and selfless than the ruins of its own designs.

You stepped along, and the fine cloth manacles shackled to your wrists and ankles and neck dragged and clawed and scraped against the floor. The grating sound they made was low and rough: a bitter, angry growl rumbling in the chest of a shadowy monster—a beast so hideous and cruel that even the daylight hesitated to fall across its face.

Then you came to your destination, to the horses and carriage and servants that would deliver you into the arms of a tyrant king—the embrace of a strange new home—and the shackles fell quiet, silenced by the sun’s glare. But though the growl rumbling against your skin faded in the light of the day, in your bones the hum of such a threat still lingered, buzzing like a fly in the thick, yellow flesh of your marrow. It was in your head, in the thick of your skull, drumming its prickling beat into the soft space behind your eyes—pressing uncomfortably at the hard material of your mask.

Yet around its nettling hum, you coerced a tentative smile—drew it careful and hesitant into the shade cast by your veil. Upon your lips it sat, delicate and sickly, trembling despite the warm cloth that embraced it. Excitement: you should call it excitement. But such a word tasted awfully sour against the flesh of your tongue, and in the back of your throat, the bitter dregs of its sound pooled and twisted into a creature slimy and crooked.

In the pit of your stomach, you felt it settle, cold and ugly and tucked up against your spine, but you swallowed the shiver clawing at your neck and lifted your gaze to your mother—your father and sisters and brother. To the persons to whom you would be forever indebted, the men and women whose sorrow was your despair and for the provision of whose joy you would most gladly relinquish your own.

They watched you approach, and their stares pressed like fingers at your mask—hands, touching and pulling, tugging at your lips and grazing your eyelids.

A smile brighter than the most fervent of suns curled your father’s lips, and its brilliant light colored his cheeks and eyes, warming his skin and grinning in his pupils, so bright it nearly burned. “My, don’t you look wonderful.” His voice was light and intense—lively, like the first flower of spring—and the warmth that colored his tone was not burdened by the pale chill of courtesy or fear, of uncertainty in the face of strange and powerful men. “The loveliest bride I ever did spy.”

The paleness that had for so long invaded the flesh of your father’s cheeks was now far gone from the planes of his face, and in its absence, a familiar, delightful color softened his lips and eyes. It was a shade not unlike certainty—a hue reminiscent of virtuous confidence.

The warmth in your father’s voice was honest and firm, but when it grazed your ears the slimy creature pressed up against your spine hissed and shrunk away, forced back by the threat of heat, of bubbling, blistered skin. The man’s words were soft and yet burning—scorching like fire, like an iron brand—and their sound left the flesh of your ears a hot, blistering shade of red.

A shameful red; a red the color of guilt and fear.

The hesitant, pale smile curling your lips shuddered in the light of such honest and fervent warmth, but you didn’t let it slip from your face; you held it as tightly as you were able, and when its shivering calmed you pulled and tugged at it until its shape was humble and soft.

Your mother hummed, and you saw her eyes move, roving across your face and up and down your figure, scrutinizing in that sharp, careful manner that had always been hers and hers alone. Her smile was not nearly as wide or bright as your father’s, but the line of her mouth was soft, softer than the hard twin blades that had once sharpened her lips, and a warmth swam in the darkness of her sharp pupils.

But then her eyes narrowed, and she raised a hand to your face. “They missed a hair,” she murmured, the line of her lips hardening into the familiar, sharp curve of a frown.

You felt the tips of her thin fingers brush your temple, tucking away the stray lock that had caught her scrutiny, and you swallowed the flinch that had tried to grab hold of your limbs. The touch of her hand was cold—icy—but not unfamiliar, yet strange, as though she were touching not your face, but some fabric stretched across it.

As though she grabbed you through a sleeve, or a veil. A cloth so thin and gossamer it was nearly transparent: a spiderweb the color of lies.

“There we are.” Her hand fell, and the line of her mouth grew softer, but in her eyes the sharpness still remained, prodding at the material of your mask. She brought her hands together, and something warm glimmered briefly in the shadows of her eyes, something so oddly bright that the creature squirming in the pit of your stomach shuddered as though it had been burned. “King Orelus would be a fool to ever cast you aside.”

A sour taste spread across the flesh of your tongue, coating your teeth and lips in its awful, bitter color. It tugged at your mask and pressed at the backs of your eyes, at the soft part of your chest—the space just above your heart.

“I do so hope he’s wise, then,” Havel added. His words were sharp, but a lightness colored his tone and softened the shape of his eyes, and when your gaze met his, the curl of a simper tugged at his lips. “Would be a shame to discover Father burdened our brilliant sister with a dunce.”

The creature tucked against your spine turned and twisted, pulling at and pressing uncomfortably up against your lungs, but you tried to stifle the pain, to swallow it like the sour taste curdling in your mouth. You tried to force a smile, to coerce your lips and eyes into laughing at your brother’s jest.

Your mother’s eyes narrowed, and her sharp glare fled to your brother, but just as the line of her mouth was tightening, Tealai spoke.

“Oh, you look so lovely, [Name].” The smile pressing at the bottoms of Tealai’s wide eyes bled into her voice, and the color it painted her words was as sweet and golden as honey. She stepped closer to you, and her gaze ran up and down your attire, following the curves and lines of fabric. “Like a flower in bloom.”

She smiled at you, and her grin was so bright, so painfully eager and joyful, and as delighted and honest as your father’s.

Yet it burned just as terribly. Prodded and pressed at your pupils with all the sharpness of the sun’s rays—all the harshness of a thousand needles, pointed and stinging.

“And we’re all made better in witnessing it blossom.” Idryla spoke now, and her warm, familiar voice curled about the cloth you called air, embroidering it in lovely shades of gold. She smiled at you, but a softness brightened her eyes, a heavy understanding absent from the gazes that pressed now at your face. “The pride of our garden, now finally in bloom.”

“Indeed,” your father hummed, and then a frown pulled at the corners of his lips, as though some memory had surfaced in his mind. His eyes moved to meet your own, and an apology softened his gaze. “Though it’s a shame Dadya couldn’t stand with us to see you off.”

Something in your chest twisted at your father’s words. It was a pull, a pinch so harsh it felt nearly like a bite, as though the slimy creature pressed against your spine had grown a mouth, had sprouted teeth as sharp and jagged as knives.

The line of your mother’s mouth tightened, and the panes of her face hardened and sharpened until their shape was that of rock, of a marble statue carved into the form of a woman.

“A terrible misfortune indeed,” your mother agreed, “to be so handicapped by illness that one misses their sister’s send-off.” Annoyance colored her words: irritation, reserved for a daughter with whom fate had chosen to burden with fever.

A worry came to press at your head, to prod unsympathetically at the base of your skull. Was Dadya’s bout of ill health too sudden? Too suspicious?

Had Mother already discovered your foul play?

But you had been careful; you had planned for her to fall ill a few days in advance of your departure.

You pressed down at the discomfort rising in your chest and parted your lips. “A fever cares little for the wishes of you and I, Mother.” Your words tasted sour on your tongue, embittered as they were by the color of your lie, but their form did not snag on the corners of your mask, and your lips could be prompted to fit around their shape. “And, at any rate, I spoke with Dadya but yesterday.” Your tongue felt light in your mouth: a dancer, leaping from word to word, toeing the line where your gums and teeth met. “She was awfully upset that she wouldn’t be able to see me off.”

A brightness flashed briefly in your mother’s eyes, and the panes of her face began to soften, to melt into a shape not nearly so hard or sharp. “She will make up for her absence at a later date.” Your mother straightened her spine and raised her chin, but the softness in her eyes dulled the sting of her whip-like tongue. “But enough talk of her. This is your day.”

Your mother inclined her head, and the maidservant at her side took a step forward. Your eyes fled to the woman—to the cloth bundle in her arms. Its shape was familiar; your mother had gifted your elder sister a similar parcel on the day she was wed to the duke of Penfeld.

“Here is my gift to you.” Mother spoke swiftly, matter-of-factly, but a warmth lifted her voice, and no sternness hardened the click of her tongue. “Today you leave us. You embark on a journey to a kingdom that shall become in every manner your new and, if the gods are willing, permanent home.” She nodded, and the servant moved to place the bundle in her hands into the arms of one of the maidservants that would accompany you to Ceorid. “But though you shall be far removed in body from your nation of origin, from its heart you shall never be displaced.”

Your gaze shifted back to your mother, to her eyes, so strangely soft. She watched you with expectation, with a satisfaction firm and yet not cold. Hard but warm. Pleasantly warm.

As though she watched the realization of a dream—the making of a fantastic reality.

The birth of hopeful truth.

And did you not feel the same?

“Thank you, Mother.” The words fell softly from your mouth, and the breath that carried them was so light and empty that it buckled beneath the air’s weight—crumbled like a pastry, all sugary sweet nothing. “Thank you.” Your voice caught in your throat, and the words rolling off your tongue stuck like dark-colored dye to your teeth. “All of you.”

Something hot and wet pressed at the backs of your eyes—a gooey, sticky and bitter tasting something that pushed and grew and grew until it could drip down the back of your throat. Its touch was scorching, and when you swallowed, your saliva stung the marks it had left in your flesh.

A smile, small and yet not inconsequential, pulled at your mother’s lips, and, though the softness was slight, you thought you saw the corners of this tiny grin press at the bottoms of your mother’s oddly soft eyes.

But then you began to turn, to walk to the carriage that waited so patiently for you. It was a beast, a predator waiting silently in the shadows, but you could hear a quiet growl rumbling in the pit of its stomach. A hum as soft as the buzz of your chains.

A man came to aid you in embarking. You saw him first in the corner of your eye—a flash of reddish brown hair and iron armor—but then you inclined your head, and your gaze snagged upon the man’s face.

Isil. The man was Isil. He stood beside you, his hand raised to take yours, and his familiar gray eyes set intently upon your face.

A bitterness hardened his gaze—his face—but then his eyes met yours, and a soft warmth smoothed the shape of his pupils.

“Princess.” He murmured the word, and when he took your hand, his grip was soft and warm, and strong and sure. Strong enough to hold your weight, to remain tall and firm in spite of your burden, your body and binds.

He was dressed with armor and sword, and when you turned your head, your gaze fell upon his horse, saddled and ready, standing at such an angle that it had been at first hidden from your view. It stood beside another steed—a mistake that had so-far slipped in unnoticed, thanks in part to a certain stablemaster and boy.

Right—of course.

How could you have forgotten?

“Safe travels,” you heard Idryla call out. Her voice rang as clear as a bell, and as you settled into the carriage, your gaze fled back to her, to your family, watching with hope in their eyes and smiles upon their lips.

Your mother raised her head, and the small grin that had pressed at the bottoms of her eyes bled into her voice as she said, rather loudly, “May the gods protect you.”

Isil, or perhaps a servant, closed the door to the carriage, and then you felt it begin to move. There was at first a small jerk, followed shortly afterward by the buzz of wheels against cobblestone. Through the carriage window, you watched the shapes of your kin move past, disappearing as you were carried away. They faded one by one, like stars, like trees, felled in a forest so distant that you were unable to hear them crash into the earth—first your father, then mother, then Havel and Tealai, and then at last Idryla.

Idryla, with her watchful eyes—her sympathetic gaze, as heavy as the bind wrapped about your wrists and neck and ankles. It was the weight of knowing, of an emotion not unlike pity.

The heat that pressed at the backs of your eyes grew firmer, harder, and the burn of its touch spread into your chest, into your lungs, scalding your flesh. Breathing was pain, was agony as terrible as the bite of a knife. A thousand knives, digging viciously at your skin, wedging themselves into the space between your lungs and spine.

This was it.

This was your goodbye, your final glimpses of Alaimore, of your home and people. Of the kingdom you hoped to save.

Perhaps you should try to memorize the land—the slope of its valleys and the outlines of its forests.

“Is it safe now?” The inquiry, poised in a voice both soft and wary, pulled you free of your thoughts, and you tore your eyes free of the window and the blur that was Alaimore’s forests and rivers and plains in passing to look upon the face of the girl sitting beside you.

Her head had been bowed to obscure what of her face her servant’s headdress did not cover, but now she tentatively moved to look up, her eyes wide and searching, jumping hastily about the interior of the carriage.

“Have we left the castle?” Didi’s searching eyes met yours, and despite the hesitance that lined her face, a soft hopefulness brightened her gaze.

You stared into her eyes, into her young, eager face, so bright and hopeful, and something hard and sharp sunk suddenly into your stomach. The pain was white—a blinding, hot white—and you couldn’t help but wince, your hands flying to clutch your abdomen.

“[Name]?” Confusion and worry darkened Didi’s tone, and out of the corner of your eye you saw her lean toward you, her hands stretched to offer aid.

For a moment, you closed your eyes. The pain was still hot, and you could feel it twisting, moving like the creature curled up against your spine, thoughtless and sharp, but you tried to swallow the heat, to soften its harsh edge.

“I’m fine—I’m fine,” you started quickly. You forced your eyes to open and your shoulders to rise, and when your breath left your lungs, with it too went the sharp heat of agony. “I think the seamstress may have left in a, uh, pin or two.” You took in another breath, and then forced your lips into the shape of a reassuring smile. “But yes. Yes—we’re out on the plains, now. We may reach Yorin by daybreak.”

Didi’s hands fell, and she began to relax back into her seat, her wide eyes closing. “Oh, thank goodness.” She breathed the words, and the hesitance that had once hardened the panes of her face faded from her skin, dissipating as quickly as dew in the morning light.

A lock of her hair fell out from beneath her headdress, and she raised a hand to push it back. Her fingers shook against her temple, trembling like a little leaf, though you knew not whether she shivered from excitement, or fear.

“You were taking so long I…I was worried we would be found out.” Didi swallowed, and when her eyes fell back open they fled to you. Her hands trembled, and the excitement that brightened her face was nearly as pale as fear.

An ache, dull and lukewarm, still lingered in the flesh of your stomach, but it began to slowly ebb as you breathed. “After your convincing act? I’m sure this stunt is the last Mother would have expected,” you assured her. You made your voice light, soothing, and you reached to take one of Didi’s trembling hands in your own. “Don’t fret, Didi. I promised to deliver you and Alourli to Yorin, and I shall.”

Didi’s eyes were bright, glowing, like two round suns—two glittering stars, so quickly snuffed by the greater light of day. But here now, in the dark of your carriage, in the shadow of a careful deception, they gleamed.

“I know, I know.” She paused, and her eyes moved to the window, to the world passing you by. A breath filled her lungs, and the line of her lips began to soften. “It’s simply just… When you dream of something like _this_…”

The knife wedged between your lungs and spine shifted, and its blade snagged on the flesh of your heart, but you swallowed the ache, the bitter emptiness that was a wound still healing.

Your fingers brushed against the edges of your mask, slowly traced its safe shape, its familiar hardness, before moving to grasp it. “It’s frightening,” you murmured.

Your voice was soft and low, a secret murmured in the dark of night, but Didi heard you, and her wide eyes fled quickly back to you. You felt her stare, the surprise that brightened her gaze.

“Terribly,” Didi agreed just as quietly, as softly.

You looked to the window, to the hills and forests and valleys that were your home. How often had you once fantasized escaping it?

How quickly had fear always devoured such dreams?

“But not impossible,” you continued. Your eyes shifted back to Didi, and a soft warmth, unfiltered and unprompted, rose to color your lips. “You’ve already taken the hardest steps, Didi. The rest will follow.”

You squeezed Didi’s hand, and you felt her fingers begin to still. A smile, soft and light in color, began to pull at her lips, curling them into a shape that was shy and cottony. A smile of morning sunshine, hesitant and yet firm, heralding the coming day.

“Of course it will.” A small, soft laugh colored Didi’s words, and the corners of her eyes began to crinkle beneath the push of her grin.

The warmth of her laugh prompted a grin to dance across your lips, and for just a moment longer, you hesitated to fix your mask back upon your face. You kept it in your hands, let it sit there comfortably, and instead let the breeze, the sunlight and air that was Alaimore’s, caress your skin and cheeks, wash it in a color that did not belong to foreign nations—hues that could only be found in that which was home.

You tried not to think, to allow worry to darken the brilliance of the day, and later the dim light of the night—the faint illumination that was the world behind your eyes. Time for thoughts would come—for concern and worry and the pain of the knife hidden behind your lungs.

And such a moment did arrive. It came with the light of dawn, in the sunlight, sneaking into the carriage, crawling past the curtain you had pulled across the window. The light was like a knife, but its blade was dull; consciousness had already been on the approach, washing the beaches of sleep, pulling at the sand—at your feet, already wet with rain. Such had been your dream: a beach, with water the color of a stormy sky, gray and angry, churning with a growl as low as thunder.

You had been waiting for something—someone. A ship—a man. He was to arrive that morning; you had been told to expect his ship.

But the horizon had been empty—desolate.

Lonely.

And now you were awake, and the beach was fading, falling into the ocean of forgotten memories.

You reached for the curtain and moved it so that you might peer out into the strange world that waited behind it. The sky was a light shade of purple; you must have resumed traveling some time after daybreak, when the world was again bright enough for safe passage.

The sun sat atop unfamiliar treetops, and the hills that rose and fell along the horizon were not Alaimore’s. Farther away, nearly hidden by the treeline, stretched a glimmering, golden lake, the distant banks of which were as foggy and blue as the sky.

Yorin. You must be in Yorin.

You sat up in your seat, and your gaze swept the sides of your carriage, searching and then quickly snagging upon Isil’s figure.

He rode alongside you, clad in metal armor that gleamed menacingly in the daylight.

His eyes stared ahead, and for a moment, you simply watched him, observed how he rode, his head high and his spine straight despite the weight of his armor. He moved with dignity, with the nobility inherent to his house, his blood and breeding.

He was a nobleman on all accounts. And loyal, so terribly loyal.

What had you done to earn such unwavering faith, such steadfast devotion?

He would’ve satisfied your mother. He’d already impressed your father.

And yet you’d told him no.

_To love is to sacrifice, but wisely so._

But this was wise, was it not? Dadya—her smile and laugh, were they not worth a life at the side of a tyrant king? Was her joy not payment enough for that which you would lose?

The knife in your chest turned, and you opened your mouth. “Sir Isil,” you called lightly, your tone clipped but not impolite.

Isil turned immediately, his spine straightening at the sound of your voice. His helmet obscured part of his face, but you could see his eyes, the hard gray irises, softening as they met yours. “Yes, my princess?” He directed his horse closer to your carriage, and the steed moved eagerly beneath his hand, its hooves clopping against the hard dirt.

“Would you kindly direct the driver to stop?” You leaned back into your seat as you spoke, your eyes shifting to Didi, who was now stirring. Isil’s eyes followed yours, and you saw something sharp gleam briefly in his gaze when his stare fell across the shape of your younger sister. “I’d like to stretch my legs.”

Isil bowed his head, and when he replied, his voice tone was firm and obedient. “Of course, my princess.”

He snapped the reigns in his hands, and his horse broke into a trot, but you didn’t watch him hurry to the front of the carriage. Your head was turning, and your hand was moving to grab Didi’s shoulder.

“Didi. Didi, we’re in Yorin.” You shook her gently, and she awoke with several blinks, her movements sluggish from sleep.

“Hmn?” Confusion clouded Didi’s gaze, and she squinted at you.

“Yorin, Didi.” You moved your hand to your lap and watched her sit up, observed how her head turned and her eyes shifted about the inside of the carriage. “We’re here.”

Realization was like a spark, and Didi’s eyes grew suddenly wide and bright, and she threw off the sluggish fatigue that had earlier pulled at her limbs. “Oh!” She pulled at her clothes, fixed the headdress that had been made askew by her sleeping position, and grabbed the pouch she had taken from her room—the one into which she had stuffed jewels and necklaces and coins.

She was ready just as you felt the carriage pull to stop, and when you disembarked, she followed behind you, her head bowed and her hands folded in front of her. The sky was a light shade of blue, and from the boughs of the nearest trees birdsong came, lilted and high, sparking in the sky like flickers of flame.

Isil had already dismounted from his horse, and he approached you swiftly, his footsteps heavy against the earth. He moved with surprising ease despite the weight of his armor, its metallic sound and hum, and once he stood before you, you spoke.

“I’d like to go for a short walk.” You spoke somewhat softly, your gaze firm and yet not sharp. Your mask still sat in your hands, hard and familiar and as valuable as the jewels in Didi’s purse.

Isil nodded his head and moved to allow you room to walk. “I did spy a lovely path through the trees thither, Your Highness.”

“Wonderful.” You inclined your head to Didi, and added, “Come along.”

You began walking, you and Didi, with Isil leading. The stiffness in your muscles ebbed as you moved, but the knife hidden behind your lungs did not dismount from its perch. It stayed rooted in place, its sharp blade threatening to catch on the soft skin of your heart, to dig until its hilt rubbed up against the flesh.

Then you reached the patch of trees Isil had spoken of, and once there, you glanced behind you, to the carriage and guards and servants, now well out of earshot. The trees here had trunks thick enough to hide a person, and the foliage was just as opaque.

“Alright.” Your eyes fled back to Didi, who stood quietly beside you, her head now raised and her eyes wide, wide and searching, eager to drink in the sight of these foreign trees, this new reality. “You have everything you need?”

Didi’s eyes fell back to meet yours, and she nodded her head fervently. “Yes.”

Your gaze moved to Isil, and he stepped forward. “I sent the guard scouting.” He looked at you as he spoke, but when his eyes fled to Didi, you heard something hard come to sharpen his tone. “He’ll be here shortly.”

The line of Didi’s mouth hardened, and she replied, “Alright.”

Then her eyes moved to your face, and the sharpness in her gaze dulled. The knife behind your lungs turned, but you forced a breath past its threatening blade and moved to embrace your sister.

You brought her into your arms, held her as though there was no earth beneath your feet, as though she was your lifeline, the last remnant of a world that was quickly fading—quickly vanishing into the depths of a cruel and vicious ocean.

You held her as if to memorize her, to hold this final picture of her: a princess, regal and noble, hiding in the attire of a servant.

A girl, trading her crown for a life with the one she loved.

Your sister.

Your _sister_.

Would you ever see her again?

“Stay safe.” Sincerity softened your tone, and love strengthened it—desire so great and pure, as if simply wishing your words to be truth would make them so. The heat that pressed at the backs of your eyes began to burn and bleed, cracking and trickling slowly down your cheeks. “I love you so much.”

Didi hugged you tightly—clung to you as firmly as you grasped her, and when she pressed her face into your shoulder, she murmured, her voice muffled by cloth, “I love you too.” You felt her body shake, and the tremors only strengthened the heat pouring into your eyes. “And thank you. Thank you, thank you, _thank you_.”

You closed your eyes and held her tighter. Held her because you knew that in a moment, in a heartbeat, she would be gone. She would be sailing away, vanishing into the world hidden by the horizon—the strange unknown, from whence she would never return.

And all you could do now was pray to the gods for her safe passage.


	21. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

** xviii. the wedding **

**queen**  
// heavy is a crown fashioned out of necessity. weak is a crown tempered by fear and loathing. the metals chip at the slightest blow; the crown bends from too tight a hold.

* * *

**_Thick_**. The air inside the carriage was thick and heavy: a fog that only curdled with time, and around your throat, you felt it settle, sticky and hot, like candle wax. Its taste was bitter and uncomfortable, but when you tried to swallow it, it stuck to the back of your throat. Clung there like a burr—a piece of metal, rusty and jagged.

Didi was gone, now. You’d ushered her away—helped her flee into the arms of a man she swore she loved.

_Didi will be fine._

And now you were alone.

_This is right—it must be._

So, so alone.

You parted your lips and tried to fill your lungs with air, but all that entered your mouth was candle wax, hot and thick. It pooled in your chest and stuck to your skin, and when it cooled the shape it took was strange and hard. It was a pointed thing, an unkind thing, and when you exhaled, its sharp edges rubbed uncomfortably up against the walls of your lungs, but you could hold your breath for only so long.

You inhaled and turned your face outward, to the sky and the strange lake that stretched beneath it. In the foreign waters swam the sky’s reflection: blue and white—colors too soft and peaceful for so unfamiliar a land. Yet here they sat, unwelcome and unsuited, filling a world to which they did not belong. Perhaps they had been stolen away from their home. Perhaps some thief or robber had taken them hostage, and here now they lay, bound and gagged, aching for some means with which to return to their place of belonging—wishing for some person to take pity upon them, to aid them in their greatest time of need.

And yet no relief had come.

The metal in the back of your mouth dug suddenly into the back of your tongue, and you curled your fingers until your nails pressed sharply into the flesh of your palms—until you could force another breath past your lips. The strange shape sitting in your lungs shifted, and as your breath left your lips, one of its pointed ends sunk firmly into the flesh of your lungs.

The pain was hot, like a burning ember pressed suddenly to your skin, and a shriek, high and sharp, started in your breast and tumbled into your mouth, but you snapped your jaw shut before it could flee past your lips. You felt it press at your teeth, shoving at them, desperate to be free—to call out to someone, anyone. But you screwed your eyes shut and ground your teeth until your jaw ached, and the shriek sputtered into a pitiful, high-pitched whine.

The emptiness was quick to swallow the sound, to devour a noise so pathetic and weak, and the whine died before its trembling fingers could ever hope to graze the ears of friend or servant. Yet the pitiful sound made for a terrible meal; it had been a taste, nothing more, and the emptiness did not settle back into its seat upon finishing its treat. You felt it shift around you, restless and hungry; you could hear the low growl of its stomach, how it demanded more.

It brushed up against you as it paced, its movements unburdened by the thick air, and its skin was smooth—smooth and slimy. If you opened your eyes you might spy it. Your gaze might meet its own, and you would see the wicked shape of its stare—the greed that sharpened its pupils. Avarice alone, for its sole purpose was to want, to seek and devour. Like death, like decay; the wolves of Aeriz, prowling in the shadows, feasting upon the carcasses of beasts long dead.

Your eyes flew open, and the breath in your lungs turned to ice, but there was no beast waiting in the shadows—no smooth-skinned monster watching you with eyes bright with hunger. The carriage was still empty; of course, it was empty. Why would it not be?

Your gaze fled to the side, but instead of the view that stretched beyond the window, your eyes found the shape of a bird. It was a small thing—a songbird with bronze feathers and a snow-white belly and eyes as dark as night. It had turned these eyes upon you, watching you with curious care, and for a moment, a strange familiarity brushed the back of your skull—recognition, ghostly and faded, like a distant light in the fog, flickering with a warmth too faint to pierce the cold.

“Why, h-hello there.” The greeting stumbled unexpectedly from your lips, and its color was that of befuddlement, opaque and muddy. Yet there was another emotion—the flickers of a warmer hue, budding in the softer flesh of your heart, prompted, perhaps, by the old, faded familiarity swimming just beneath the surface of your memories. “Are you looking for something?”

The songbird tilted its head almost quizzically and ruffled its wings, and though its dark eyes never left your own, no sound fell from its small beak.

The feeble warmth sitting in the soft flesh of your heart began to slowly strengthen, growing like the first flickers of fire—the earliest rays of sunlight piercing the dark sky. Perhaps such warmth fell from the foggy familiarity that followed the bird, or perhaps it came instead from the look in the creature’s gaze. The songbird’s eyes were curious and honest; there was no deceit in its face, no secret design hidden in the feathers of its chest.

It was a bird, an animal—a servant of Edite. It did not care for false kindness, for lies or dishonesty. Yet neither was altruism a trait inherent to its kind. So why, then, had it chosen to alight upon the sill of your carriage window?

Slowly, so as not to frighten it, you brought up your hands and opened your palms to the creature, brandishing the emptiness that swelled therein, and then a small, apologetic smile spread across your lips. “I’m afraid I haven’t any seed on me, little nightingale.” You spoke softly, quietly, as though you were in danger of being overheard—as though anyone cared to listen in on the conversation between a princess and a bird. “But you may find some in the trees thither.”

The nightingale did not blink, but its wings began to open, rising for the task of flight. The warmth growing in your chest flickered, and your smile dimmed, but, to your surprise, instead of flying off in search of seed, the nightingale decided instead to hop into your open hands.

Surprise straightened your spine and widened your eyes, and for a moment, you could do little but stare at the little bird. Shock and confusion held your voice captive, and the breath that had once been frozen in your chest left in a sharp huff of breath. The bird settled into the well formed by your palms, and its body, though small and light, was overflowing with warmth.

Then, once it was comfortably situated, the nightingale tilted its head back and turned its gaze upon you. Something like content brightened its dark eyes, and perhaps if it could manage such, a gleeful smile might’ve spread across its small beak.

“I—I,” you began after a breath, attempting, nearly in vain, to wrench your voice free of confusion’s grasp. At first, your tongue stumbled, but then you swallowed, and the warmth of the nightingale’s small body spread down into your arms. “Well, I—alright.” You closed your eyes and then opened them again, and another smile, soft and hesitant, began to curl your lips. “I suppose, after all the traveling you must have done, you most certainly would be tired.”

As though it understood you, the nightingale let out a short, almost affirmative chirp, and at the sound of the bird’s twitter, the small, soft grin that had been pressing against the bottoms of your eyes widened of its own accord. The songbird’s warmth was spreading to meet the light flickering in your chest, and when they touched, a thought rose to your lips.

“Would you care for a bedtime story, little friend?” you murmured. Your tone was soft, and the warmth in your chest rose to color your inquiry. “I know a few. They’re all quite interesting, or so I’ve been told.”

The nightingale tilted its head, as though pondering the question. After a moment of thought, it shook its head, and a short but pleasant chirp fell from its beak.

“No?” A frown pulled at your lips, but the songbird’s warmth chased away the sharper sting of cold disappointment. “Oh, well, I suppose not,” you continued, your lips already curling back into the shape of a pleasant smile. “You’re already well-acquainted with most of them, aren’t you?”

The nightingale nodded its head and tittered as though to say, “Of course I am,” and at the sound, a small, soft laugh bubbled in your chest.

“Your Lady keeps you well-informed, hmn?” The warmth in your chest spread into your eyes, and the emptiness that had so readily moved to devour the carriage retreated in the wake of this new light. Your thumb moved to brush back the nightingale’s oak-colored feathers, and the bird did not shy away from your touch. “Well, if not a story, then what is it you desire?”

A pause immediately followed your question. The nightingale listed its head, and its dark, curious eyes stared thoughtfully off into the distance, and then, after a moment of silence, its gaze returned to meet yours. It opened its beak, and the first few notes of a song curled off of its little pink tongue. The tune was clear and familiar; it pressed at the back of your skull, dug more firmly at the memory the songbird’s presence had brought closer to the light of realization.

The memory floated just beneath the surface of recollection; you could see it there, lying just out of your reach, weighed down by time and waterlogged with neglect. But that tune—you remembered it. You knew that lullaby.

A wind came, and the waves rocked harder, and a piece of the memory floating idly beneath the ocean surface was, for a moment, brought out of the water. You knew that tune; someone had sung it to you once, long ago.

“_Fly high, little songbird._” Your tongue moved without your mind’s direction; the song swelling in your chest was instead the willing guide to your lips and voice. “_Up into the pale blue sky._” The nightingale’s tune filled your ears, and the words to it danced along your throat, and when your lips curled around them, the shapes of their vowels and consonants were as familiar as the names of your mother and father. “_Where my song is clear, and the wind is kind._

“_Leave behind thy brittle nest—the leaves and branches of the trees._” Your voice was smooth and pleasant—soft and comforting—and as you sang, the nightingale’s eyes began fluttering close, and its head lowered. “_Moors and fallows are sights too sore; I call now to thee._

“_Fly far, little songbird, over rivers swollen and blue._” You brushed back the nightingale’s feathers with your thumb, but you hardly felt the plumes. A memory was slowly surfacing, tip-toeing up your spine to bleed like a daydream into your mind. “_The waters speak of the ocean’s song, where life is born anew._

“_The claws of Ither stand ahead—cliffs taller than the mother tree—but be not daunted by their height, for comfort awaits thee in the sea._”

You were younger, five or so, standing in a familiar sunlit clearing, and before you sat a woman—a lady with long, shimmering hair. You knew her form; its design was intimate in a manner afforded only to one’s kin. She was perched atop an old stump, and though you could not discern her face, you knew she was smiling. You could feel it, much like one might discern a change in the wind.

You knew not her name, but such mystery did not elicit fear. She was not a woman of whom you were to ever be terrified.

“_Fly fast, little songbird, cut through the mighty waves. The lesser sun shall direct her kin. Thou must be brave._”

She called you to her and offered you a seat, and without hesitating, you climbed onto her lap, like a young child to her mother. There she drew you into her embrace, and her hold was that of a mother’s: warm, comforting. A hearth—a fire in the cold.

“_Keep thy eyes upon the skies; I shall deliver thee through the storm. Fear not the king’s mighty roar; thy feathers shan’t be shorn._”

You pressed your ear to her chest, but instead of a heartbeat, you heard the soft hum of the nightingale’s tune. She was singing, and her voice was soft and silvery. It was the sound of a lyre or the notes of a flute—heavenly music pouring from a woman’s lips.

“_Fly true little songbird, the sea’s ward awaits. Ready thy silver song, and trust in thy fate_.”

The words hung in the air like glittering particles of dust, and the melody continued to embrace you even as the memory of the noblewoman faded. Her name eluded you, but her voice filled your head and drew you into arms kinder than those into which you were being delivered. The warmth burning in your chest spilled out to occupy the empty space around you, and when you opened your eyes, you saw that the shadows had retreated and that the wolves of Aeriz no longer prowled in the dim.

Your gaze fell to the nightingale, now asleep in your hands. The bird had tucked its head beneath its wing, and the sight softened your stare. You could feel the nightingale’s heartbeat, small but strong, drumming against your palm, and you brought it down to your lap and held it there, your smile never fading.

Your eyes lifted once more to the window, but the sights that lay beyond it had changed. Ceorid was drawing closer, but though the sky was still your own, it now danced freely across the lake, resplendent with the orange and red hues of the setting sun. Thedes, in her colder colors, stood to replace the day, but the warmth of the nightingale’s lullaby guarded you against the cold, and when sleep rose to take you, it delivered you into the hands of a kinder dream.

When you later awoke, the sun was returning to the sky. It climbed slowly, but steadily, up the now uncomfortably close mountains of Ceorid, and as you moved to sit up in your seat—careful not to disturb the nightingale still resting in your hands—a figure came to the door of the carriage.

The ridge of Isil’s helmet gleamed harshly in the light of the dawn, but you could just make out his eyes—his familiar stare, nearly hidden by his visor. His gaze was soft, but something uncomfortable lingered in the darkness of his pupils, and when he spoke, you could hear the bittersweet edge of a wistful smile in his voice. “Your Highness. Good morning.”

His grin was small and feeble, burdened down as it was by the weight of the mountains—of the castle you would soon be entering—and the sound of it was almost wry.

His tone pressed unkindly at your breast, and the mountains, nearer now than they had ever been, towered ominously above your head, but the warmth of the nightingale’s lullaby had not yet left your heart. You could feel it still, how it steeled your bones and filled your lungs, and though it could no longer chase away the approaching cold, it prolonged the chill’s eventual arrival.

“Good morning, Sir Isil,” you replied, your voice still soft with sleep. Your arm shifted, and for a moment, the thought of reaching out to touch him filled your head, but then your gaze fell briefly upon the mountains looming just ahead, and your hand stilled. “Might I assume our arrival to be imminent?”

Something sharp flashed briefly in Isil’s eyes, and when he answered you, his tone was sour; the smile had left his voice, and the frown that had replaced it was bitter and red. “We shall be entering the city gates shortly.”

The tips of dread’s cold fingers brushed briefly over the nape of your neck, but the warmth nipped at them, and for the moment, they retreated.

“Alright. Thank you.” Your gaze fell to your hands, to your mask. It still sat there in your lap, just beside the sleeping nightingale. You should take it now, before you reached the city wall, and yet, your hands would not move.

Perhaps you feared waking the nightingale. Perhaps you had grown too self-indulgent, and you worried that the mask would no longer fit snugly upon your face.

Whatever the case, you found your eyes, unguarded by your mask, rising once more to meet Isil’s.

The mountains pressed now harsher upon him than they did you, but such inequality was not just. He did not deserve such pain.

Ceorid wasn’t his destiny; it couldn’t be. And yet he had followed you anyway, ready to bear your fate, to set aside his own in order to share the weight of yours.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t right.

But would you have wished otherwise? If he had asked you for permission to accompany you as he had his marriage proposal, would you have been as pressed to tell him no?

“Isil?” Your lips moved now without thought, and in this moment, your tongue recklessly disregarded the title that should’ve preceded the man’s name.

Surprise brightened Isil’s eyes; you could see the shock, briefly widening his sharpened gaze. Curiosity colored his stare, and he drew closer to the carriage—as close as he could without entering it.

“Yes, my princess?” he asked, and for a brief moment, his tone was lighter, less embittered by dread and anger. Hopeful. Wishful.

You paused, but no words came to your tongue, or those that did lacked a voice to carry them. You had lost it again, and so you swallowed, and an eventual flimsy, gray-colored reply fell from your lips. “Never mind.”

It was wrong of him to disregard his own fate in favor of accompanying you along the path of your destiny, and yet, why could you not bring yourself to stop him?

The surprise brightening Isil’s stare dimmed, and the shadow that fell across his eyes was as dark as disappointment. The sight tugged at the warmth enveloping your chest, but the words would not come. They could not; they did not exist, and the others had been pushed too far down to be easily recovered.

“As you command, Your Highness.” Isil nodded his head and pulled away, but he did not direct his horse to move forward or fall back. Instead, he rode alongside you, ready to lend his hand should you need it.

Your eyes followed him, but your voice refused to bend to your will, and your tongue disregarded the pull of your mind. But what was there to say? The mouth of the river was fast approaching, and no mortal’s words could sway the water’s current.

Yet still, something pressed at the back of your throat. A thought, a confession, stubbornly advancing despite the futility of its design.

Something moved against the flesh of your palm and tore your gaze from Isil’s form. The nightingale was stirring, waking just as the carriage was stopping, and quickly, you moved to pull the curtain back across the window. But you paused before reaffixing your mask; you allowed for one last moment of vulnerability.

“Good morning, little friend,” you murmured to the nightingale, your voice light, though hoarse. “Did you sleep well?”

The bird blinked its eyes and nodded, and then it began to stretch its soft brown wings. It moved without haste, and you did not urge it to quicken its actions. The outside chill was advancing once more; you could feel dread’s fingers, reaching out to grasp your neck.

“You were wonderful company,” you began slowly, your tone quiet—wistful, “certainly better than this empty carriage.”

The nightingale stood, and its gaze stared unblinkingly up into your own. A softness warmed its eyes, a comfort that belonged to understanding—to knowledge beyond that which you would ever know.

“I wish you well on your journey, and I thank Your Lady for this blessing,” you continued, and then, after swallowing, you added, “Might you visit again some day?”

The nightingale chirped approvingly and then rubbed its head against your thumb, and a warmth bled into the flesh of your cheeks and lips, curling the line of your mouth into a brighter smile.

“I’ll make sure to keep seed on me,” you said, smiling. You moved to the window, pulled back the curtain, and held up your hand, and the nightingale opened its wings.

It took off in a furious flutter of feathers and soared up into the sky far, far above your head. The sun guided its eyes, and the wind carried its wings—carried it away from the mountains and back to the luscious forests, with their sprawling branches and thick foliage. You watched it depart for as long as you could, but then the carriage began moving once more and you were pulled through the gate, past the ramparts protecting the city.

You took your mask in your hands, and though its material was cool, you fixed it back upon your face. Dread’s fingers danced along the back of your neck, but you kept your dwindling flame out of its reach.

The bustle of activity bled through the curtains, punctuated by the sound of people. Strange people with strange voices, speaking in accents difficult to discern. The people of Ceorid.

King Orelus’s people.

Former enemies, now allies. Now individuals over whom you would reign.

Did they look like monsters? Like the evil beasts your grandfather and father had once opposed? People who were capable of killing their true king; people who were glad to take a cruel, merciless one in his stead.

Did they look like you?

Your hand rose to the curtain, and your fingers brushed over the fabric, pushed it back so your eyes could chance a peek into the crowds. Isil no longer rode alongside you; he must’ve gone ahead, to follow just behind the Ceorid guard that had been appointed your guide at the gate. An Alaimoran guard on horseback had taken Isil’s place, but, just behind him, followed a Ceorid pikeman on foot.

Your eyes fled from the guards and to the city, moving over the crowds of people—all the townsmen and women and children who now paused in their daily goings-on to watch the procession. You saw some of them turn to whisper words into the ears of their neighbors, their eyes wide with curiosity and surprise, but a few others narrowed their eyes, glared at your guards and carriage like they were interlopers—unwelcome guests infringing upon their land.

Their stare prompted the cold fingers dancing along your spine to grab hold of your shoulders, and your hand began to falter. The emptiness of the carriage called out to you, and its voice now was kinder than the glare of the sunlight. The curtain moved to fall back into place, but not before your eyes shifted to a child, a girl, perhaps six years of age, who had climbed atop a stationary wooden cart. She stood with a boy her age, and as you retreated back into the safe unknown of the carriage, her curious stare met yours.

Her eyes were pale and bright with a childish wonder, a curiosity that was not as sharp as that which sat in the gazes of the other onlookers. She blinked owlishly, and when the curtain fell back to block you from her view, you could still feel her stare, cutting through the fabric like the dagger blades.

In the dark, the cold fingers were free to run amok. They danced up and down your arms, pressed down upon your breast bone, and wrapped themselves about your wrists and neck. Their movements grew more furious the closer to the castle you drew, and so too did the beating of your heart. It thrashed wildly against the harsh cage of your ribs, kicking and screaming as though it were being taken to its execution. Its movements were almost painful, a dull ache spreading outward from your breast, but you tried to swallow it, to weather through the agony.

Greater pain awaited failure.

You clung fervently to your flickering flame and cold mask, and when the carriage stopped one last, final time, you took a long, deep breath.

_Keep thy eyes upon the skies; I shall deliver thee through the storm._

The door opened, and in came the cold light, draping you in colors you didn’t know the names of. Strangers and a handful of your countrymen awaited you outside, but the hand that was raised to aid you in disembarking belonged only to Isil.

Carefully, you took it. The familiar leather of his gloves was smooth against your skin, and his grip was strong and firm but not harsh. Never harsh.

_Fear not the king’s mighty roar; thy feathers shan’t be shorn._

For the first time in all your life, you set foot upon the cobblestones of a Ceorid castle’s courtyard. The keep itself towered above you, tall and imposing—a mountain around which a city had been built. Yet the sky still rose above it.

The sky was still out of King Orelus’s reach.

“Greetings, Your Highness.” A man approached you. A servant, who bowed his head to you and lowered his eyes. “And Sir Knight.” The man’s hair was blond, but strands of silver cut through his locks, and when he stood back at his full height, he was careful not to cast his eyes upon your face. “Servants shall escort you both to your quarters, where you shall be readied for the ceremony.”

The sound of your heartbeat was a roar in your ears, but somehow you managed to hear the man’s voice, and so you nodded your head. The cold fingers dancing along your flesh moved faster, and their claws dug into your skin like metal, cold and harsh.

“I will stay with my princess,” Isil suddenly spoke up. His voice was low—a growl that rumbled in the depths of his chest—and you saw the servant eye him, regard him with a gaze that was bright with unease.

Surprise blossomed in your chest, but you were careful not to allow such shock to spread into the flesh of your face, and when you regarded Isil out of the corner of your eye, you kept your gaze free of inappropriate emotion.

Isil’s eyes were cold, cold and sharp, like the sword he had rendered willingly unto the castle guards. He glared at the servant, scrutinized him with a bitterness reminiscent of the contempt with which he had regarded the gods.

The servant swallowed; perhaps he had not expected his king’s orders to be challenged by the future queen’s knight. Then, after a pause, he replied slowly, his tone hesitant, “If…that is what you desire, my lord.”

The fair-haired man then stepped aside, and from behind him advanced two maidservants. They approached you carefully, and while one stopped before you, the other made to greet the women who had traveled with you from Alaimore.

“Right this way, Your Highness.” The woman who addressed you was small, but her face was older than yours, and when she spoke, her voice was soft and high, like the squeak of a mouse. She was not hesitant in turning to lead you into the castle, and her movements were quick but light.

You followed her, your steps practiced and elegant. Isil was careful to walk beside you, and though he, along with the Alaimoran guards, were made to divest themselves of their helmets and weapons at the castle ramparts, the armor that remained upon his figure whispered of terrifying strength.

The woman led you both down unfamiliar hallways with windows that looked out across an alien land and past doors that opened into strange rooms filled with objects unknown, before she finally shepherded you into a chamber guarded by Ceorid men. There, she turned to Isil, and said, in her high, light voice, “I’m afraid I must ask you to wait outside, Sir Knight.”

Isil paused, but unlike his earlier encounter with the fair-haired servant, he did not move to challenge the light-footed woman. Instead, he nodded his head and stepped back, his sharp eyes moving to the Ceorid men. “Of course.”

The woman closed the door, then, leaving Isil alone in the hallway with the Ceorid guards, and you surrounded by a motley of maidservants of both familiar and strange origins. The Ceorid servant who had earlier approached your own entourage moved now to familiarize the Alaimoran women with the dressing room, and the light-footed woman turned to address you.

“A widely acclaimed seamstress fashioned the wedding dress for Your Highness,” she began, her light tone dancing like a feather through the air. As she spoke, she gestured to a sewing mannequin, positioned off to the side, over which a wedding dress had been sewn. “She was delighted to have been bestowed such an honor.”

Your eyes fled from the servant and to the mannequin—the bodice and skirts which fit so snugly upon it. It was a beautiful dress, long and flowing, and colored like the sky. The bodice and skirts were a pale blue, and the long sleeves were as white as clouds. White also colored the lengths of fabric that fell from the back and ran to your fingers—wings made of silk—and as for the headdress, it was silver, like chainmail. If you peered into the sky-colored fabric, perhaps you might catch a glimpse of your nightingale, hurrying off to return to Edite.

You felt your heart tremble at the sight of the dress, as though it were not clothing, but a cruel torture, and the cold fingers digging into your flesh pressed down even harder, yet your mask was too carefully affixed to shiver at their torment.

“The design is quite lovely,” you murmured. You spoke softly, and your voice was careful and feathery. Light, but not high. “The seamstress overdid herself.” Your eyes returned to the servant and, taking the flame that still flickered dimly in your chest, you bled warmth into your tone. “_I_ am honored to be wed in it.”

For a moment, the woman was quiet, as though surprised by your words, but the look in her eyes was strangely glossy, and it was only after a brief pause that the sheen faded.

“I—I see.” Her tongue stumbled as she replied, and her eyes blinked furiously, as though to rid themselves of some afflicting particle. “I shall have a messenger enlighten her of your sentiments.” Then she swallowed, and her gaze, now firmer, shifted to her companion. “Feera.”

The other Ceorid maidservant straightened her spine and turned to the Alaimoran women. She was younger-looking than the light-footed woman, but when she began speaking, issuing directions to your Alaimoran servants, her voice was lower—richer.

The women began moving, undressing you of the veil and skirts you’d worn for the journey. They bathed you in waters that smelled of lavender and roses, washed away any memory of Alaimore that could’ve clung to your skin, and then dressed you in your wedding attire.

When they were finished, nothing of your home remained in your flesh. None of its warmth, its sunlight and forests. Now you were dressed in Ceorid’s colors, in its strange sky and cold light. Their hands had stripped you of Alaimore, but you had not stopped them.

All that remained now was the mask and the flame, and the latter was too feeble to withstand the bitter light.

_Keep thy eyes upon the skies._

You were led back out into the hall, where Isil waited. While you were being dressed, he had found for himself a space just opposite the door, near an alcove on the far wall, but when you reappeared he moved forward. His eyes quickly shifted up and down your form, and for a moment, the sharpness in his gaze faltered.

And in that moment, a thought came to your mind. A dream—a possibility as cloudy as sea fog.

A wedding, but the groom was no king. No, he was a knight with hair like sepia and eyes the color of stone, and his face was not harsh or cruel, nor was his nose crooked from the trauma of a fight.

Isil.

He was Isil.

But the dream was false. It was a lie, and lies do not belong in marriage.

Recollection crossed Isil’s face, the memory of the glaring truth that lay before you both, and his gaze darkened once more. “You look wonderful, Your Highness.” The compliment curled begrudgingly off his tongue, as though it had wanted to leap forth from his lips but had been hastily drawn back.

You smiled, but the grin tasted sour. “Thank you, Sir Isil.”

Dishonest fantasies had no place here. They were useless, fruitless, and vain. And yet they clung to your flesh like burs, and when you tried to tear them out, their spikes took with them bits of tissue and drops of blood.

You began walking again, led by guards and servants to your groom. And all the while Isil stayed beside you, accompanied you step-for-step without complaint.

Soon—much, much too soon—you arrived at the castle’s temple, where you would be wed in the presence of the gods and Ceorid’s augurs. The building was small and strangely deteriorated, like it had been neglected or abandoned. Vines and other foliage had begun to crawl up its walls, and some of the stones were stained from wind and rain.

The disrepair dug uncomfortably at your skull, and confusion welled up inside of your chest. Did Ceorid’s augurs have no morals? No ethics? No care at all for or respect in the very gods whose wills they divined? And what of the king? Had he no eyes? Did it mean nothing to him that a place of such religious sanctity had gone uncared for?

A frown tried to pull at your lips, and for a moment it succeeded. Shock had given it leeway, and it pressed itself into the material of your mask and tugged at the line of your mouth. Then the guards opened the doors, and you remembered again your place.

_I shall deliver thee through the storm._

Cold, icy fingers wrapped around your heart, but you stepped forward. You walked as you had been taught, with the grace and poise expected of a noblewoman—a princess. You did not turn to look at the guests who watched you advance, but instead kept your gaze focused upon the path in front of you—to your destination: a statue of Edite, born aloft by her winged servants, and the men who stood before it.

Aeriz’s wolves had returned; you could feel them nipping at your heels, drawing blood from your flesh. Their growls rumbled in your chest and head, but the mask kept them back, forced them to retreat before they could ever reach your face.

Music played as you advanced, yet you could hardly hear it over the snarls of the wolves. Weights pressed down upon you, stones as heavy as a mountain, and they forced you to walk slowly for fear of being crushed.

An eternity passed before you reached the men, and when you did, the music stopped.

Your eyes were fixed upon your destination, to the augur that stood just before the statue of Edite. His back was to you; he was readying the objects upon the table to his right, near the golden birdcage housing the swallow that would deliver the message of the royal union to Mehreus. Once you stood before him, he turned, and to your surprise, you saw not the face of a wizened elder, but the visage of a child.

The augur was a boy with bronze hair and soft, green-brown eyes. His gaze was alight with his youth, but his cheeks were hollow, and dark circles hung from his wide eyes. When his stare met yours, he paused briefly, and surprise and amazement flashed across his face. His hands stilled, and his wide eyes grew even wider, until you thought they might swallow the rest of his head.

“Molevri.” The growl came from your left. It had slipped past the lips of the man that stood there, quiet and colored with warning, but oddly familiar.

_Fear not the king’s mighty roar._

The boy—the augur—jumped at King Orelus’s voice, and then quickly moved to straighten his fine, golden-brown robes. The attire looked oddly big on him, as though he had borrowed it from someone much, much larger—older.

Augur Molevri held out his hands and cleared his throat. “Let us begin.” His voice was not as high as a child’s but youth still clung to it, raising it to a tenor near to that of a bird’s. “Today, with the blessings of the Great Mother Mitemis and beneath the watchful eyes of the High Lord Odemis, we are witness to the birth of a new, prosperous age. Just as Naadis was born of the union of the god Khimos and the goddess Edite, so too shall this marriage bear peace for the good people of Ceorid and Alaimore.”

The boy’s hands moved to the table at his side, where, upon the white cloth, two crowns had been placed. One was fashioned from bones and harsh metal, the teeth of dogs and bears and the claws of men, and the other had been made of feathers and flowers, the armor of birds and the gems of the earth. One for Khimos, god of war and strength, son of Odemis, and the other for Edite, goddess of wisdom and language, daughter of Mitemis.

They had been of separate worlds, and when marriage had brought them into one, they had found some means to birth Naadis—peace. But so, too, had destruction come. They had also fostered Luthos, god of devastation, cunning and deceptive, and cruel and vengeful. The fox and the crow; the deceiver and the harbinger.

The gods had bred hatred and chaos just as easily as they had tranquility and accord. What hope, then, was there for mortals? For you?

_Thy feathers shan’t be shorn._

“And so, as Mitemis made their blood one, she shall unite the bloods of thy houses.” The augur boy took the crowns in his hands as he spoke and began tying a length of red fabric to the one made of bone and metal. His fingers shook as he tied the knot, and his voice wavered, but he did not pause, and his young eyes sharpened with determination. “She shall bind thee to one another, thy hearts and minds, and thou shall remain so united until Velena claims thy souls for Her Lord.”

The augur then carefully tied the other end of the scarlet fabric to the crown fashioned from flowers and feathers, and after doing so he lifted his gaze to you and Orelus. “But blood does not deceive, and the Great Mother binds by way of oath. Speak, then; swear before her now, before the High Lord Odemis, that thy feelings are true, and that thee shall readily submit to her will.”

“I shall.” King Orelus was first to speak, and his low voice echoed in the room. You couldn’t decipher his tone; you could hardly hear him over the rushing sound in your ears, but his words were heavy, and they settled like stones upon your chest.

Now it was your turn to speak, but your lungs were empty. Velena had already claimed the air, the breath that Mitemis had given.

_Fly true, little songbird._

“I shall.” You manipulated your tongue and drew air into your pinched lungs. Your lips felt cold, and your teeth were but bystanders, watching the words curl into the air.

“Then it is done.” The augur took the crowns, now connected by the fabric—by the new blood Mitemis had fashioned—and he placed them upon both your heads. When doing so, King Orelus, being much taller than the boy, was forced to bend in order for the augur to crown him.

Then the boy stepped back, and he continued, “May Mitemis’s blessing furnish thee both with lives teeming with prosperity and good health. Go, now, and fulfill thy oath.”

Despite being made of only feathers and flowers, the crown was still heavy. Its weight was that of any crown, and when you turned to face your groom—your husband—you feared for a moment that your neck might snap beneath the unwieldy burden.

Now, for the first time since your initial meeting all those weeks ago, you set your eyes upon King Orelus of Ceorid.

His eyes were still dark and sharp—cruel, like the swords of his men. Now, however, he was clad in colors warmer than those which he had worn when you had first met. His tunic was long and colored a ruddy, deep red, and had been tied at the waist with a leather belt. From his shoulders hung the thick brown pelt of a bear, the very bear you must’ve seen that day. You could still spy it now; it stared down at you through the mask of a man’s face, and its growl echoed in his voice.

He leaned down to you, and you knew what came next. You knew, but knowing did not allay the displeasure curdling in your stomach.

There was no love in the kiss of a tyrant. No joy. No glee, welling up from your heart and spilling to your chest, warming your lips and sweetening the taste on your tongue. No, you knew what love was, how it tasted and felt upon the lips of another. You knew though you shouldn’t, and perhaps it was worse that you did know, for now, you could not fool yourself into believing that what you now had was in any way similar to what you had lost.

Here, there was only displeasure, like a chill, a sickness spreading from your tongue into the pit of your stomach. The kiss of a blade; the promise of pain.

But you could take it, couldn’t you?

_The sea’s ward awaits._

For Alaimore.

For your father and mother, and brother and sisters.

You could stomach it.

_Ready thy silver song._

You had to.

The hair of King Orelus’s beard tickled your nose, but he pulled away before the irritation could prompt the worry of a sneeze. He stood back at his full height, the bear beside his feather-boned bride, and beneath the music that now swelled to celebrate your union, you heard the flutter of feathers. The swallow, aching to be freed from its cage, to be able to sing of all it had seen.

The Ceorid noblemen and women who had been witness to the wedding of their king clapped. They cheered and applauded, but their voices sounded like a roar. The yell of a waterfall, warning of the coming drop.

You knew what was to come: the fall you were steadily sailing toward.

You had been born for it.

_And trust in thy fate._

* * *

The festivities that followed the wedding were loud and raucous, but the warmth of the candles was too cool to thaw the icy claws that had curled around your throat. You watched the guests drink and eat, but little food made it to your own lips. Your mouth would not open, and your stomach turned at the thought of meat and bread.

You sat while others congregated and watched them as they most assuredly observed you. Sunlight, slowly fading, danced in the air and twirled around the figures of these strange men and women, enveloping them in cruel, golden armor. Some approached you with grins and honeyed words, doing all they could to appear pleasant and palatable. You knew their game, and they were determined in attaining their goal, and so you treated them to smiles and sweet replies.

They introduced themselves, but their names disintegrated the moment they curled off their tongue, and after a few moments, even their faces blurred into incomprehensible shapes. Nonsense colors that grew ugly and muddy in your hands.

You wanted to leave, to disappear from their watchful eyes, but you couldn’t move. The wedding crown was no longer perched atop your head, but you could still feel its weight pressing down upon your skull, threatening to snap your spine. Your bones were too brittle, and if you moved incorrectly they would shatter like glass.

Your eyes fled for a moment from the guests, and in that pause you found your gaze falling to rest upon Isil. He stood beside you, silent and watchful, and for a moment a thought pawed at your tongue. A desire trying its best to escape your chest.

But you couldn’t entertain it—you shouldn’t.

He was just a knight, and you were a queen now. Queen [Name]. What sort of sound was that? Clear? Rich? Silvery? Or perhaps harsh. Broken. Unsavory.

“Your Majesty.” The sharp, familiar voice cut through your thoughts, and a sour taste filled the cavern of your mouth. The line of your lips struggled to maintain its curled shape, and when your eyes moved to the thin man who approached you, you fought to keep your gaze dull and soft.

Ambassador Nivai advanced toward you. He was dressed in finer clothes, but his bright green eyes were just as unkind as you remembered. Unlike the other Ceorid nobles, no falsely honeyed smile curled the ambassador's thin lips, but the cruelty of his gaze devoured any appreciation his honesty could have bred.

“How strange. I wouldn’t have thought to find you here, restricted to this lonely corner.” The ambassador’s voice was dry, and his sharp eyes picked unsympathetically at your mask. “Has Her Majesty no love for us Ceorid nobles?”

The sour taste in your mouth pressed at your tongue, but when you replied, you made certain to keep your tone free of such bitterness. “Why, certainly not,” you began, your voice decidedly light, “quite the contrary, in fact.” You raised your hand and with it touched the space just above your heart. “It’s simply that these…festivities have begun to exhaust me, yet I’m loath to retire from the company of such pleasant people.”

Despite the purposeful honesty of your tone, Ambassador Nivai’s eyes did not soften, and he regarded you cooly.

“Really?” The frown that sat upon Nivai’s lips sharpened his words, and they fell like pointed daggers from his tongue. “How queer. I would’ve supposed, on a day as auspicious as this, that Her Majesty would have spirit in droves.”

The hands curled about your neck squeezed your throat, but you pressed back against the bitterness that was trying to bleed into your eyes. “Even so, such spirit is not without its limitations, Ambassador Nivai.” You allowed a frown to pull at your lips, but its distaste did not embitter your tone. “It must be carefully rationed, should one hope for it to last.”

Ambassador Nivai’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment he simply regarded you, his stare sharp and critical, but then he hummed and brought his mug to his lips. “Hmn. Though I’m certainly unfamiliar with such ‘allocation’, I suppose I should not question too deeply the customs of an Alaimoran.” He swallowed his drink and then inhaled, and his sharp eyes closed as he bowed his head. When he continued, though his tone was wry, something that was almost soft moved to color it—kept it from sounding too mocking. “I wish you luck with this ‘rationing’ of yours, Your Majesty. I do not doubt that you shall be in need of such spirit in the days to come.”


	22. CHAPTER NINETEEN

** xix. the knight and his queen **

**dear**  
// his loyalty he pledged to her; his life he bound to her own. wherever she went, he would follow. whatever she wished, he would do.

* * *

**_A cold, ugly creature had settled_** in Isil’s chest. He could feel it moving, prodding at his lungs and brushing up against his heart—carving for itself a place beside the old, familiar anger that thrived just behind his ribcage. It had teeth made of iron, and the color of its eyes was that of rotting fat: slimy, yellow flesh that pulsated and wriggled about like a worm.

The bitter chill that had sunk its claws into his chest was so cold it tasted almost warm upon his tongue, but its heat was neither kind nor pleasant. It burned; it ravaged his lungs and throat with all the ferocity and cruelty of fire, and the taste it left in his mouth was that of sulfur: acrid and bitter.

The wedding had passed. His beloved princess was now a queen. The queen of Ceorid.

An ugly title—unfit for so lovely a woman.

She sat just before him, her back to him and her eyes turned upon the thin-faced Ceorid nobleman who’d approached her. Her spine was as straight as the shaft of an arrow, and she held her head high, but her stature did not fool him; he knew her front was as hollow as a rotted log. But she wore it anyway, brandishing it as openly as the brightest, prettiest truth, and the Ceorid nobility were eager to welcome her deceit, to bask in the light of such a beautiful lie.

But that came as no surprise; they’d allowed such a horrid monster of a man to crawl and kill his way to the throne—a false smile was child’s play.

Princess—Queen [Name] was no longer dressed in the full regalia of the wedding ceremony, but Isil could still see the deceitfully elegant crown the augur had placed upon her head. It was a ghost, an echo fashioned from broken feathers and wilted flowers, and the man it bound her to had already wandered off.

The tyrant of Ceorid stood now with his countrymen, eagerly engaging in whatever discussion men of such depravity delighted in. The sun was falling, and flickering candlelight cast a tall, crooked shadow behind the wicked king. Isil watched it waver. He saw the darkness take the shape of a monster, a beast with teeth flush with deadly venom and paws strong enough to crush a man’s skull, before it fell into the shape of a murderer—an executioner with a jailer’s ring of keys hanging from his dark belt.

The creature in Isil’s chest shifted, and he felt it press its iron teeth warningly against the flesh of his heart. Black venom dripped from its fangs, and the vitriol was swift to sink into his lungs. The taste of such bitter poison bubbled up into his mouth and lingered in the back of his throat, and he narrowed his eyes until his stare was as sharp as the venom filling his chest.

The familiar anger felt oddly cooler now; the chill of this new creature must have infected it, freezing it until it was like ice: hollow and pale and so cold that it burned the flesh like fire. A false fire, with flames that promised neither safety nor warmth. A fire that warned of destruction, that swore to burn all that crossed its path.

The crooked shadow shifted, and the tyrant to which it belonged lifted his head. The sharp blade of Isil’s glare must have nicked the monster’s neck, for his gaze fled from the faces of his fellow crooks and turned to meet the eyes of the queen’s knight.

Isil did not balk at the sudden weight of the king’s stare; he continued to glare, his gaze narrowed and hardened by the ice in his chest. In return, the king watched Isil, observed the knight with eyes as dark as his tyrannical heart. After a breath, Isil could see the monster’s stare slowly begin to narrow, sharpening into suspicious, dark-colored slits, but then, the cold creature in Isil’s chest shifted, and his gaze fled to follow its movements.

His eyes moved slowly about the room and settled upon the cruelly joyful figures of Ceorid nobility only long enough to sharpen his stare upon their crooked faces. He watched them, observed with sharp eyes as they drank and ate and drank some more. Never before had Isil gazed upon people more deserving of the reign of a monster.

The Ceorid nobility gorged themselves on the fruits of his queen’s sorrow and delighted in the crooked pursuits of their tyrant king, and the longer Isil cast his glare upon them, the sourer the taste cutting his tongue.

The frown that weighed upon Isil’s lips deepened, and a hot itch spread into his fingers. They started for his hip, but his sword was gone. He’d given it up at the gate like an enemy—a creature worthy of suspicion and wary eyes.

All this talk of peace, and in the end that was all it really was: talk. Cheap words, agreeable enough to ears willing to receive them.

With no handle around which to curl, his fingers instead wound themselves into a tight fist, and if he were not wearing gloves, perhaps he could look down and find that his knuckles had turned the color of snow.

The guard standing at the near end of the hall did not see his hand slip; the man did not see Isil at all. His gaze was intent upon the revelry before him. He watched with jealous interest as noblemen and women did as best they could to drink themselves into stupors that reeked of beer and wine, but as Isil scrutinized the guard, the Ceorid man was suddenly freed of his trance.

The guard started, and his head turned away from the revelry, to the door, behind which nighttime shadows were slowly gathering. The man moved to open it just a crack, and in doing so, his stature shifted. Isil saw him make to disappear into that growing darkness, but he hesitated, and instead, he merely peered into it.

His head was tilted, as though he’d heard something odd, but perhaps he thought it not too strange to risk abandoning his place. However, not a second later, Isil saw the guard turn again to the door, and this time, reluctance did not hinder the man.

The guard slipped into the night, and the shadows were eager to swallow him. He moved soundlessly; the uproar of joyous revelry deafened the ears of any possible spies, but it held no sway over their eyes.

Suspicion, dark and thin, began to crawl up the length of Isil’s spine, and he narrowed his eyes at the door through which the guard had disappeared. Uncertainty was not a kind feeling, and it certainly had no business infecting the halls of a foreign castle.

Where had the guard gone?

Suspicion prodded at his feet, and his fingers began to slowly uncurl from their tight fist. Perhaps he should go after the man—see what exactly it was that had given him reason to abandon his duties—but no, he couldn’t do that. If he left then he would be abandoning his queen—leave her to fend for herself in a den crawling with ravenous, crooked wolves.

He would not leave her.

He could not.

It was cruel enough that she was here, bound to a tyrant and his foreign castle, far from the only land she had ever known. It would be only further cruelty to force her to endure such strangeness alone, even if only for a breath.

So Isil did not move from his place behind his queen, and instead, he continued to watch the door, waiting to see when, or perhaps if, the guard would return. The suspicion climbing up his spine grew heavier with each second that passed, and slowly, he felt it begin to sink its fangs into the base of his skull.

Where was the guard?

What was keeping him?

“Sir Isil?” The queen’s voice cut like sunlight through the dark fog suspicion had cast, and Isil’s eyes fled with haste from the door. He turned abruptly to look at her, and the cloudy call of uncertainty spurred his hand to again reach for his hip.

“Yes, Your Highness?” The words fell without thought from his lips, and when his eyes met hers, his mind grabbed hold of his tongue. “Forgive me—Your _Majesty_.”

The queen’s eyes did not widen at Isil’s slip of tongue; the front she had worked so hard to perfect kept her expression perfectly neat and indifferent, like the stone face fashioned for a goddess. But Isil spied the flicker that she’d tried to keep hidden, the glimmer of something so familiar, disguised as little more than a blink.

She was careful in her deceit, and talent favored her; verily, she might have skill enough to fool the world, but he was not the world.

The sun had faded; the mountains of Ceorid had swallowed it, and now those of lighter palates were parting, leaving to find beds before they could become victims, or perpetrators, of a drunken brawl.

“You are forgiven,” she said, and her voice was soft and light, like the last echoes of sunlight. The thin-faced nobleman she had been engaged in conversation with had long parted, and no other highborn men or women hounded her, vying for a chance to ingratiate him or herself in the graces of the queen of Ceorid. “But I’m growing rather tired. Might you accompany me to my chambers?”

Without hesitating, Isil nodded his head, and for a moment, the chill invading his chest abated. “Of course, Your High—Your Majesty.”

He moved to take her arm, but as they were taking their leave from the revelry, the tyrant king’s crooked shadow fell across them.

“Are you headed somewhere?” The inquiry fell with all the grace of a growl from the monster’s throat. He’d approached quietly, as discreetly as a snake in the long grass, but now he stood as tall as a bear poised to strike, and perhaps if Isil had his sword, he would have treated the tyrant similarly.

The crooked king’s gaze flitted between them, but when it met Isil’s, he saw something sharp flicker in the man’s stare. It was a look similar to that which the tyrant had given him in King Johan III’s study: a stare that spoke of harsh distrust—wariness that afforded no mercy.

But that was no surprise; mercy was seldom expected from a monster.

The cold creature in Isil’s chest drew its lips back from its teeth, and its snarl echoed in Isil’s ears. He returned the king’s dark, scrutinizing stare, but unlike the king of Ceorid, Isil had no metal with which to buttress his glare.

“Indeed, we are,” Queen [Name] replied. Her voice was smooth and rich, and when she spoke, King Orelus’s gaze fled to her. “The day is well depleted, my lord, and I’m afraid I can no longer stave off my exhaustion.” Then she paused, and Isil felt her arm tense in his grip. “I aim to retire to the bed-chamber.”

The bitter taste filling Isil’s mouth grew suddenly so sharp that he nearly gagged, and the snarl filling his ears shifted into the beginnings of a growl.

Something flickered in the king’s dark eyes, and when he next spoke, the growl in his voice had been softened by a tone that sounded almost like a smile. “Is that so?” He watched her, and though a light had come to brighten his gaze, a sharpness still lingered in his pupils. “Then allow me not to obstruct you.”

However, instead of moving to turn away, the king’s gaze fled to Isil’s, and when the man continued, Isil could hear the echo of a growl returning to the tyrant’s deep voice. “I should like a word with your knight, however, if you can spare him.”

Instinctively, Isil’s hold upon his queen tightened, and the look in his eyes hardened until it was as harsh as stone. He glared at the king of Ceorid, and the creature in his chest began barking.

The queen swallowed, but when she spoke, her voice was still smooth and clear. “I would love to fulfill my lord’s desires, but if Sir Isil and I were to part now, then I shall have no one to accompany me.”

King Orelus did not blink, and without missing a beat, he replied, his voice low, “A fate easily remedied, my dear.”

The king of Ceorid turned his head, and his eyes settled upon the door Isil had been watching. Isil followed the man’s gaze, and he saw that the guard who had disappeared so long ago stood again at his post; he must’ve returned while Isil’s gaze had been fixed somewhere else. King Orelus motioned to the man and then again to another guard, and after both had taken note of their king’s wordless orders, the tyrant’s gaze returned to the queen.

“There we are. Now, wasn’t that painless?” The words were light, but when they fell from King Orelus’s lips, their weight was heavy—lead painted to look like feathers. The monster watched them expectantly, and the shape of his eyes was smug, satisfaction fat with the power his wicked sword had afforded him.

The line of Isil’s mouth tightened and flattened, and he clenched his jaw to keep the creature’s cold growl from invading his tongue. Its claws had dug into the flesh of his lungs, and now—prompted by cool, familiar anger—it bared its wicked teeth.

He would not leave his queen.

“Your ingenuity is nothing short of astounding, my lord.” The queen’s voice was light and smooth, and her response curled like music off her tongue, but when Isil felt her fingertips graze his hand, her sweet words turned sour in his ears. “What else can I do but gladly accept this brilliant solution of yours?” Beneath the silk of her tone, Isil thought he heard the edge of something sharp—the glimpse of the truth she was so adept at disguising. “I ask only that you take care not to dally.”

She stepped away from him, and when he thought to tighten his grip, her arm had already fallen from his hand.

The creature in his chest lashed its tail, and another bark, harsh and furious, fled from its throat.

Now the king of Ceorid smiled. The tips of his beastly fangs peeked out from beneath the edge of his lip, under the wires of his dark beard, and his shadowy eyes gleamed with a light that was as crooked as his nose.

When King Orelus spoke, his voice was low, and his wolfish teeth sharpened his words until their shape was that of a warning, a threat faintly veiled by the tone of an innocuous promise. “I do not intend to be kept long.”


	23. CHAPTER TWENTY

** xx.  ** ** the king and the augur **

**general**  
// firm are his iron bones. they make him tall and proud, and they cage a black, charred heart. a heart that knew too much of blood and flames; a heart that learned too quickly the feeling of fire.

* * *

**_The knight of Alaimore was honest in his hate_**. He wore it openly, foolishly, as though it were some badge of honor, some flag waved to rally troops bred of similar spite. It was refreshing, his odd candor—a change of pace as unexpected as it was dangerous, for the night had proven the man’s hatred, though honest, to be untamed, and wild creatures could not be permitted to wander the halls of Ceorid’s castle, especially not those born of such a treacherous and vitriolic nature.

The memory of the knight’s scathing glare still lingered in Orelus’s flesh—the heat of the man’s narrowed eyes, his unveiled contempt, bearing down upon the king’s skull like the blade of a great sword. Distance had not lessened the blow, and now that the knight was before him, Orelus could spy in hideous detail the cold ire gleaming in the man’s stony eyes.

His hatred was like a shadow—a crooked, pointed darkness that sharpened the edges of his young face and thinned the line of his lips; a dog, growling at the thief who had dared to tread upon his master’s land. But this land was not his lord’s, and the king of Ceorid was no thief.

All he had acquired had been hard-earned, and now, just as he was beginning to enjoy the fruits of his labor, a vile mutt had come barking at his heels.

“I’m not keen to waste time—mine, or yours—so I’ll cut right to the chase,” Orelus started, his eyes narrowed. He watched Sir Isil carefully and scrutinized the position of the man’s hands and the movement of his gaze. The knight’s sword and daggers had been forfeited, but a man’s bare hands were just as dangerous as his blade. “Clearly, you harbor little affection for me. I wager, even, that you very well despise me—abhor the very earth upon which you stand.”

Sir Isil’s eyes narrowed, and the flames of his rage flickered. Orelus had seen such enmity before; he recognized the shape of it—its vengeful gleam and cruel point—but familiarity did not engender sympathy. Rather, it spoke of suspicion, of guards and brandished swords and the safety of distance, but enemies were best kept at arm’s length. There, their designs were in the plainest view, and retribution was not so difficult to deliver.

“Frankly, I could’ve stood to ignore this vitriol, but even I cannot feign blindness when you wear your enmity as plainly as the day,” Orelus continued. His voice was low and biting, and a familiar harshness was creeping into his tone—growling in the back of his throat. “I do not enjoy the warning of a blade at my neck, Sir Isil, least of all when I am within the confines of my own home.”

The line of the knight’s mouth tightened, but his glower did not fade and in the candlelight, his doggish anger gleamed like wolf teeth.

“I am not King Johan; you have no oath to me, nor I to you,” Orelus stepped closer to the man, and when he next spoke, his voice was quiet, and warning colored his tone, “so either you learn to curb your spite, or you leave.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Orelus saw the knight’s right hand move. The man was curling his fingers into the shape of a fist.

No—he wasn’t that foolish, was he?

Had Orelus’s eyes deceived him? Had he spied stupidity and misinterpreted bravery?

“Do you understand?” Orelus watched the man, scrutinized him with eyes as pointed as his sword, and for a moment, the frown that pulled at his lips deepened.

There was no place in these halls for a powerful, spiteful ass; Ceorid had long since suffered its fill of such fools.

The knight’s gaze darkened, and a wicked, metallic gleam flickered in his sharp pupils. His jaw tightened and his nostrils flared, but then, just as Orelus’s thumb brushed up against the hilt of his blade, a thought, as quick and as bright as lightning, flashed across the knight’s face.

“Indeed, I do,” when he spoke, his voice was tight, and his response fell reluctantly from his frowning lips, but his fingers uncurled themselves from their angry fists, and his sharp stare shifted downward, “Your…_Majesty_.”

Surprise, pointed and biting, dug into the base of Orelus’s neck, and his eyes narrowed.

Perhaps the knight truly was more brave than idiotic, or perhaps even fools were capable of moments of clarity.

“I’m glad we could come to an understanding,” Orelus replied. No smile curled his lips, but a lightness had seeped into his tone. “This talk was more productive than I had hoped.” The quicker the dog learned the nature of his novel circumstances, the better—for him, and for his master. “But it has, still, cost me precious time.

“Goodbye, Sir Isil,” the king began, and then, in a manner reminiscent of the statements of other noblemen, he added, dryly, “If we must talk again, I hope the matter of discussion is more…_amicable_.”

Without another word, nor a glance back at King Johan’s bravest knight, the king of Ceorid turned and began walking first to the door and then—once he was free of the room and the threat of trivial discussion—down the hall. He moved quickly, and perhaps, if he were younger, he would’ve started running. He had lost enough time—wasted it on a foolish dog the king of Alaimore had called a knight—but he needed to know; he had to make certain that these fruits were still all they appeared.

Too often had he been fooled by deceitful fantasies—dreams as ephemeral as the morning fog. They had tasted of honey, but their sweetness had been false, and the iron tang of blood had quickly drowned their sugary bodies.

Mothers stolen by cruel, wicked gods. Fathers and brothers gutted by cold, unfeeling blades.

He had held them in his hands, but like water, they had slipped between his fingers, and when he’d tried to grab them—to make them stay—he had found that his palms were empty. They had already disappeared—vanished in the heat of a goddess’s cruel light.

The scent of incense was bitter, and its taste weighed heavy upon Orelus’s tongue, but again, he stomached its uncomfortable pressure and pushed open the door to the castle temple. Wedding decorations still dressed its walls, and the table upon which the ceremonial crowns had laid had yet to be put away. Yet, despite the warmth lingering in such festivities, an uncomfortable chill had begun to seep into the air, here. It dripped from the stone walls and tarnished braziers—the cracking floors and paltry offerings. It came from the goddess’s statue, from her cold, scrutinizing eyes and severe expression. She saw all: weddings and births, and victories and treaties; destructions and defeats, and killings and curses.

She watched the world and judged as gods and goddesses do, but the thought of action had always escaped her careful eyes. She had seen a general plot to poison his king, but had she stayed his hand? Had she forced her acolytes to take pause when they’d planned a child’s murder?

How great was the goddess who could see but lacked the hands with which to act? How mighty was her power? How beneficial was her favor?

The scent of incense dug like needles into Orelus’s eyes, and he tore his gaze away from the goddess of wisdom’s harsh stone face. Inquiries made to the gods were foolish; their power was useful only in so much as it served his designs.

His stare fell to the boy who stood at the statue’s base. The boy’s back was to the king, and his attention was so focused upon his current task that he did not acknowledge the man’s presence, or perhaps even register it.

“Molevri.” Orelus called the boy’s name abruptly, but the sharpness that had earlier hardened his tone had faded.

Still, the boy jumped at the sound of his name, and when his body whirled to face the king of Ceorid, his hazel eyes were as wide as frightened deer’s. But then recognition washed over him, and warmth returned to his pupils.

“Orelus.” Relief was clear in his tone, and as the king approached him, Orelus could spy the beginnings of a small smile spreading tentatively across the boy’s face. He had something in his hands—a feather from some small bird—and he played with it as he spoke. “You—you startled me.”

A frown pulled at the line of Orelus’s mouth. “You’ve gotten easier to spook,” he replied shortly, his dark stare narrowing in suspicious concern, “I was hardly quiet.”

The boy’s smile flickered, and he swallowed and replied, “I—I suppose I…have.” Something dark gleamed briefly in the boy’s young eyes, and a grimace swallowed his smile.

Dread, deeper and cooler than the impatience pooling in Orelus’s chest, rose to dig into the back of his skull. The nightmares—the apocalyptic visions—they must be worsening. He could see it in Molevri’s face—in his hollow cheeks and darkling eyes. They had once been so bright—so full of life and vigor, like their brother’s—but the witch had squandered his youth, and now the gods were draining what remained.

How petty of the gods—how utterly predictable.

Frustration blossomed in Orelus’s chest, but it came with fear, small and yellow in color. Its taste was a familiar—a bitter tang welling in his mouth—but Orelus was quick to swallow it. He bowed no longer to fear, especially not that born of the gods’ designs.

“The mirror—where is it?” A softness had invaded Orelus’s low tone, and the dread that had invaded his mouth shifted into a kinder shape when it left his tongue.

The shadow that had crossed the boy’s face did not return, but fear, like a cool fire, flickered briefly in his eyes. “I put it away.” Molevri paused, and then he added, his voice quiet, like a whisper, “It has eyes; I’ve felt them…watching me.”

The frown pulling at Orelus’s lips deepened, but impatience was biting at his concern, and he began, his voice smooth and light, “Can you bear its gaze, for just a moment?” He paused and his hand moved to finger the grip of his sword. “I need to be made…certain of something.”

Something dark and reluctance fled across Molevri’s face, but then a thought, hopeful and bright, gleamed in his eyes. “Then…the queen.” The boy swallowed, and the disbelief that had colored his tone began to shift. “The woman with the silver tongue—she’s real.” The boy’s voice grew louder—lighter—and something like hope warmed his pale cheeks. “I thought I’d recognized her but…but I was worried it was just another dream.”

Amusement warmed Orelus’s chest, and a small smile pressed at his lips. “I promised I would find her, didn’t I?” But then impatience dug again into his spine, and he leaned toward the boy. “Now, the mirror, Molevri?”

The darker color of hesitation peeked out from behind the delightful light that brightened the boy’s face, but he tightened his grip upon the feather in his hand and nodded his head. “Gi—Give me a moment.”

Orelus watched the boy turn and disappear behind a door just off to the side of the great statue, and in his absence, the goddess’s stare grew heavy.

He heard the flutter of wings; he saw a flash of feathers, perching upon dusty wooden beams. And in the back of his head, he felt her pull. A tug, like the push of a wave, grabbing at his skull. A breath of wind dusting the shell of his ear.

_It is a dangerous path, this one you now walk._

Her voice was smooth—a respite in the storm. A warm bed for the broken body, but her lies did not deceive Orelus. He knew the hideous truth that lay beneath her kind disguise.

_Abandon it now, lest it leave you stranded in the midst of an unsympathetic sea._

A bird twittered, but its call was not joyful. Orelus could feel its stare. It dug into the back of its head like the knight’s, but its gaze was not quite so pointed. The air had grown colder, and though the door had not been opened, a sharp breeze now wound its way down the length of the room.

The frustration that had taken root in Orelus’s chest flared forth once more, and a glower rose to his lips. His anger was pointed and focused; he’d had so long to refine it, to mold it into a shape worth fearing.

“Save your breath.” He forced the words out between his teeth, and when he lifted his gaze, he set it upon the goddess’s stone face. The eyes had not moved; she was not within the marble. “I do not flinch at empty threats.”

_You are sailing for a cliff, cousin. Look, and you shall see it._

His lips curled back from his teeth, and his eyes narrowed until they were dark slits. “You are not welcome in my presence. Leave this place, or I’ll pay your threats in kind.”

The breeze strengthened, and the bird’s chirping grew louder—harsher. It was no songbird; it was a crow. A death omen, screeching at him.

_The boy suffers for your choices. Have you no love for him?_

The anger was hot, like a fire—a sun burning in his chest—but its flame would not swallow him. What was there left to devour?

“Get _out_.”

A pause; the wind held its breath, and when it exhaled, she was gone.

He felt it in the back of his head: a sudden lapse of pressure and warmth as sticky as blood. The scent of incense still dug at his chest, but there was no screeching in his ears—no wind, tugging at his cloak or pulling at his hair, and when he turned to look behind himself, all his eyes found sitting upon the cracking floor was a feather, long and white.

The snarl that pulled at his lips settled into the shape of a glower, but he did not move to grab the plume. Better it stay as it was left, so its memory might sooner vanish from his mind.

“Orelus?” Molevri’s soft voice pulled Orelus free of anger’s tight hold, and his eyes fled to the boy. Molevri watched him with eyes bright with curiosity, and he continued, his voice light, “Is something the matter?”

Without hesitating, Orelus shook his head, but a bitter aftertaste lingered on his tongue. “No. I was thinking, is all.”

“Oh, alright.” Molevri’s stare dimmed, and his eyes fell to the bundle he carried in his arms. “Well, I—I have the mirror, as you requested.”

A desire leaped into Orelus’s throat, and anticipation prompted him to step forward. “Good—good.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his stare fixed itself upon the mirror, covered though it was by thick fabric. “Look into it. See what fates it has to offer.”

A frown pressed at Molevri’s lips, and reluctance devoured the color in his eyes, but he brought back the dark covering obscuring the mirror’s surface and turned his stare upon its silver face. For a moment, he was silent, and his eyes were narrowed, but then, after a breath, a milky sheen bled into the dark shadows of his pupils, and his gaze slowly widened.

Impatience forced Orelus’s tongue to move, and he parted his lips. “What do you see?”

Molevri opened his mouth, and when he spoke, he did so slowly—hesitantly. “A man—a king. He…he looks like you.” At first, the boy’s voice was soft, but as he continued to stare into the mirror, it grew slowly stronger—firmer. “He sits upon a throne, and the woman with the silver tongue—she is beside him. There is a child—a boy. No—two boys. A girl?” Molevri paused and confusion bled into his tone. “She’s—she’s looking at me. She…knows something.”

Alarm ran red hot through Orelus’s veins, and swiftly, he moved to wrench the mirror free of Molevri’s grip. “Stop it—that’s enough.”

Molevri’s eyelids fluttered, and the milky sheen that had covered his pupils began to fade. “But…she wanted to show it to me.” The words fell in the murmur of a quiet afterthought, and the boy furrowed his brows. Confusion darkened his eyes—surprise at being so forcibly removed from the mirror’s vision—but after a moment, he recalled the place in which he stood.

Swiftly, Orelus threw the sheet back over the mirror’s silver face, and then he cleared his throat. “Thank you, Molevri.” Satisfaction smoothed his tone, and his gaze softened. “I must be going, now; don’t stay up too late.”

The boy shook his head and blinked his eyes again, and then a smile, soft and tentative, curled his lips. “I—I’ll think about it,” he replied, his voice quiet, but then a thought darkened his countenance, and his grin faded, “but…Orelus…the visions.”

Concern brushed up against Orelus’s chest, and he set the mirror down upon the table. “They’ve gotten worse, haven’t they?”

Molevri nodded, and a shudder ran down his spine. “I—I’ve seen Mother…and—and Vaelen.” The boy hesitated, and his voice quivered. “Their faces they’re…they’re _twisted_. They cry out to me; they’re—they’re always in _agony_, Orelus, and I…I don’t know why.” Molevri’s gaze had fled to the side while he’d spoken, but now he lifted it to meet Orelus’s stare. His eyes were wide and glistening—pleading, as though Orelus knew how to aid him. “I…I want to help them.”

Something cold dug into the base of Orelus’s spine, and for a moment, he thought he heard the flutter of wings, but it was only the wooden beams, creaking in the wind.

“They’re long passed, Molevri.” Orelus moved closer to the boy, and place a hand upon his shoulder. His tone was not soft—there was no softening such a truth—but his stare was not unkind, and though his voice was low, it was not warningly so. “Take no heed of the gods’ and their fear-mongering; nothing more can be done for the dead.” Orelus’s gaze fled briefly to the statue of Edite, and a frown tugged at the line of his mouth. “You must save your concern for the living.”


End file.
